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OF  CALIFORNIA 

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BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 
ARNOLD    BENNETT 


By   ARNOLD    BENNETT 
NOVELS 

THE  lion's   share 

THESE  TWAIN 

CLAYHANGER 

HILDA   LESSWAYS 

THE  OLD  wives'  TALE 

DENRY  THE  AUDACIOUS 

THE  OLD  ADAM 

HELEN   WITH   THE   HIGH   HAND 

THE  MATADOR  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

THE   BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

BURIED  ALIVE 

A  GREAT   MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM   GOD   HATH   JOINED 

A   MAN   FROM   THE  NORTH 

ANNA  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

THE  GLIMPSE 

THE  CITY  OF  PLEASURE 

THE  GRAND  BABYLON    HOTEL 

HUGO 

THE  GATES  OF  WRATH 

POCKET  PHILOSOPHIES 

THE  author's  craft 

MARRIED  LIFE 

FRIENDSHIP  AND   HAPPINESS 

HOW  TO  LIVE  ON  24  HOURS  A  DAY 

THE   HUMAN    MACHINE 

LITERARY  TASTE 

MENTAL  EFFICIENCY 

PLAYS 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 
CUPID   AND  COMMONSENSE 
WHAT  THE  PUBLIC  WANTS 
POLITE   FARCES 
THE   HONEYMOON 
IN  COLLABORATION  WITH  EDWARD  KNOBLAUCH 
MILESTONES 

MISCELLANEOUS 

BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

PARIS   NIGHTS 

THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  AN  AUTHOR 

LIBERTY 

OVER  there:   WAR   SCENES 

NEW  YORK: GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Books  and  Persons 

BEING    COMMENTS    ON    A 
PAST    EPOCH 

1908-1911 
BY 

ARNOLD    BENNETT 


NEW  YORK 

George  H.  Doran  Company 


COPYRIGHT,    191 7, 
BY  GEORGE  H.   DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CoIIeg« 
Library 

760 
B^3 


TO 

HUGH  WALPOLE 


1265SG4 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

The  contents  of  this  book  have  been  chosen 
from  a  series  of  weekly  articles  which  en- 
livened the  New  Age  during  the  years  1908, 
1909,  1910,  and  191 1,  under  the  pseudonym 
"  Jacob  Tonson."  The  man  responsible  for 
the  republication  is  the  dedicatee,  who, 
having  mysteriously  demanded  from  me 
back  numbers  of  the  'New'  Age,  sat  in  my 
house  one  Sunday  afternoon  and  in  four 
hours  read  through  the  entire  series.  He 
then  announced  that  he  had  made  a  judicious 
selection,  and  that  the  selection  must 
positively  be  issued  in  volume  form.  Mr. 
Frank  Swinnerton  approved  the  selection 
and  added  to  it  slightly.  In  my  turn  I 
suggested  a  few  more  additions.  The  total 
amounts  to  one-third  of  the  original  matter. 
Beyond  correcting  misprints,  softening  the 
crudity  of  several  epithets,  and  censoring 
lines  here  and  there  which  might  give  offence 
without  helping  the  sacred  cause,  I  have 
not  altered  the  articles.  They  appear  as 
they  were  journalistically  written  in  Paris, 
London,    Switzerland,    and    the    Forest    of 


Vll 


PREFATORY  NOTE 
Fontainebleau.  In  particular  I  have  left 
the  critical  judgments  alone,  for  the  good 
reason  that  I  stand  by  nearly  all  of  them, 
though  perhaps  with  a  less  challenging 
vivacity,  to  this  day. 

Arnold  Bennett 

Fibruarj,  1917 


CONTENTS 

1908 

PAOB 

Wilfred  Whitten's  Prose  .      .      .  3 

Ugliness  in  Fiction     ....  8 

Letters  of  Queen  Victoria      .      .  11 

French  Publishers      .      .      .      .  16 

Wordsworth's  Single  Lines      .      .  18 

Novelists  and  Agents  ....  22 

The  Novel  of  the  Season        .      .  26 

German  Expansion      ....  30 

The  Book-Buyer 32 

Joseph  Conrad  and  the  jthen^EUM  36 

The  Professors 41 


Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  Heroines 
W.  W.  Jacobs  and  Aristophanes 
Kenneth  Grahame 
Anatole  France  . 
Intimations  of  Immortality 
Mallarme,  Bazin,  Swinburne 
The  Ruined  Season     . 


47 

53 

57 

59 

63 

65 
68 


IX 


CONTENTS 

1909 

PAGE 

"  EccE  Homo  " 77 

Henry  Ospovat 79 

French  and  British  Academies      .      81 

POE  AND  THE  SHORT  STORY  ...         84 

Middle-Class   ......      88 

The  Potential  Public       .      .      .     loi 

H.  G.  Wells 109 

tchehkoff ii7 

The  Surrey  Labourer        .      .      .120 

Swinburne 123 

The  Sevenpennies        .      .      .      .130 

Meredith 134 

St.  John  Hankin 140 

Unclean  Books 143 

Love  Poetry    .      .      .      .      .      .145 

Trollope's  Methods     .      .      .      .148 

Chesterton  and  Lucas  .  .  .150 
Official  Recognition  of  Poetry  .  155 
Artists  and  Critics     .      .      .      .158 

X 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

RuDYARD  Kipling    .       .      .      .  •    .     i6o 
Censorship  by  the  Libraries    .      .167 

1910 

Censorship  by  the  Libraries    .      .     181 

Brieux 195 

C.  E.  Montague 201 

Publishers  and  Authors    .       .       .     204 

Tourgenieff  and  Dostoievsky  .      ,    208 

John  Galsworthy        .       .       .       .214 

Suppressions  in  "  De  Profundis"  .    217 

Holiday  Reading 222 

The  British  Academy  of  Letters  .    228 

Unfinished  Perusals  .      .      .      .235 

Mr.  a.  C.  Benson        ....    239 

The  Literary  Periodical    .       .       .    242 

The  Length  of  Novels      .       .      .248 

Artists  and  Money      ....    250 

Henri  Becque 255 

Henry  James  .       .       .      .       .      .263 

English  Literary  Criticism     .      .    267 

xi 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Mrs.  Elinor  Glyn       .      .      .      .271 

W.  H.  Hudson 278 

Neo-Impressionism  and  Literature     280 


1911 
Books  of  the  Year 
"  The  New  Machiavelli  "  . 
Success  in  Journalism 
Marguerite  Audoux     . 
John  Masefield      .... 
Lectures  and  State  Performances 
A  Play  of  Tchehkoff's     . 
Sea  and  Slaughter 
A  Book  in  a  Railway  Accident 
"  Fiction  "  and  "  Literature  "  . 


289 
294 
300 

305 

311 

315 
321 

325 
328 

331 


Xll 


1908 


WILFRED  WHITTEN'S  PROSE 

An  important  book  on  an  important  town  4  Apr.  '08 
is  to  be  issued  by  Messrs.  Methuen.  The 
town  is  London,  and  the  author  Mr.  Wilfred 
Whitten,  known  to  journalism  as  John  o' 
London.  Considering  that  he  comes  from 
Newcastle-on-Tyne  (or  thereabouts,  his 
pseudonym  seems  to  stretch  a  point.  How- 
ever, Mr.  Whitten  is  now  acknowledged  as 
one  of  the  foremost  experts  in  London 
topography.  He  is  not  an  archaeologist,  he 
is  a  humanist — in  a  good  dry  sense;  not  the 
University  sense,  nor  the  silly  sense.  The 
word  "human"  is  a  dangerous  word;  I  am 
rather  inclined  to  handle  it  with  antiseptic 
precautions.  When  a  critic  who  has  risen 
high  enough  to  be  allowed  to  sign  his  reviews 
in  a  daily  paper  calls  a  new  book  "  a  great 
human  novel,"  you  may  be  absolutely  sure 
that  the  said  novel  consists  chiefly  of  ridicu- 
lous twaddle.  Mr.  Whitten  is  not  a  humanist 
in  that  sense.  He  has  no  sentimentality, 
and  a  very  great  deal  of  both  wit  and 
humour. 

He  is  also  a  critic  admirably  sane.  Not 
long  ago  he  gave  a  highly  diverting  exhibition 
of   sanity   in   a  short,  shattering  pronounce- 

3 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Apr.  '08  ment  upon  the  works  of  Mr.  Arthur  Christo- 
pher Benson  and  the  school  which  has 
acquired  celebrity  by  holding  the  mirror 
up  to  its  own  nature.  The  wonder  was  that 
Mr.  Benson  did  not,  following  his  precedent, 
write  to  the  papers  to  say  that  Mr.  Whitten 
was  no  gentleman.  In  the  days  before  the 
Academy  blended  the  characteristics  of  a 
comic  paper  with  those  of  a  journal  of  dog- 
matic theology,  before  it  took  to  disowning  its 
own  reviewers,  Mr.  Whitten  was  the  solid 
foundation  of  that  paper's  staff.  He  furnished 
the  substance,  which  was  embroidered  by  the 
dark  grace  of  the  personality  of  Mr.  Lewis 
Hind,  whose  new  volume  of  divagations  is,  by 
the  way,  just  out. 

But  my  main  object  in  referring  to  Mr. 
Whitten  is  to  state  formally,  and  with  a  due 
sense  of  responsibility,  that  he  is  one  of  the 
finest  prose  writers  now  writing  in  English. 
His  name  is  on  the  title-pages  of  several 
books,  but  no  book  of  his  will  yet  bear  out 
my  statement.  The  proof  of  it  lies  in 
weekly  papers.  No  living  Englishman  can 
do  "  the  grand  manner  " — combining  majes- 
tic dignity  with  a  genuine  lyrical  inspira- 
tion— better  than  Mr.  Whitten.  These  are 
proud  words  of  mine,  but  I  am  not  going 

4 


WILFRED  WHITTEN'S  PROSE 

to  disguise  my  conviction  that  I  know  what  4  ^P^-  '^ 
I  am  talking  about.  Some  day  some  pub- 
lisher will  wake  up  out  of  the  coma  in  which 
publishers  exist,  and  publish  in  volume 
form — probably  with  coloured  pictures  as 
jam  for  children — Mr.  Whitten's  descriptions 
of  English  towns.  Then  I  shall  be  justified. 
I  might  have  waited  till  that  august  mo- 
ment. But  I  want  to  be  beforehand  with 
Dr.  Robertson  Nicoll.  I  see  that  Dr.  Robert- 
son Nicoll  has  just  added  to  his  list  of  patents 
by  inventing  Leonard  Merrick,  whom  I  used 
to  admire  in  print  long  before  Dr.  Nicoll 
had  ever  heard  that  Mr.  J.  M.  Barrie  regarded 
Leonard  Merrick  as  the  foremost  English 
novelist.  Dr.  Nicoll  has  already  got  Mr. 
Whitten  on  to  the  reviewing  staff  of  the  Book- 
man. But  I  am  determined  that  he  shall  not 
invent  Mr.  Whitten's  prose  style.  I  am  the 
inventor  of  that. 

A  few  weeks  ago  I  claimed  to  be  the  dis-  2  May  '08 
coverer  of  Mr.  Wilfred  Whitten  as  a  first- 
class  prose  writer.  I  relinquished  the  claim 
with  apologies.  Messrs.  Methuen  have  stag- 
gered me  by  sending  me  Mrs.  Laurence 
Binyon's  Nineteenth  Century  Prose,  in  which 
anthology  is  an  example  of  Mr.  Whitten's 
prose.    Though  staggered,  I  was  delighted. 

5 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2  May  '08  I  should  very  much  like  to  know  how  Mrs. 
Binyon  encountered  the  prose  of  Mr. 
Whitten.  Did  she  hunt  through  the  files 
of  newspapers  for  what  she  might  find 
therein,  and  was  she  thus  rewarded?  Or  did 
some  tremendous  and  omniscient  expert  give 
her  the  tip?  I  disagree  with  about  85  per 
cent,  of  the  obiter  dicta  of  her  preface,  but 
her  anthology  is  certainly  a  most  agreeable 
compilation.  It  shows,  like  sundry  other 
recent  anthologies,  the  strong  liberating  in- 
fluence of  Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas,  whose  "  Open 
Road "  really  amounted  to  a  renascence  of 
the  craft. 

And  here  is  the  tail-end  of  the  extract  which 
Mrs.  Binyon  has  perfectly  chosen  from  the 
essays  of  Mr.  Whitten: 

"...  The  moon  pushing  her  way 
upwards  through  the  vapours,  and  the  scent 
of  the  beans  and  kitchen  stuff  from  the 
allotments,  and  the  gleaming  rails  below, 
spoke  of  the  resumption  of  daily  burdens. 
But  let  us  drop  that  jargon.  Why  call  that  a 
burden  which  can  never  be  lifted?  This  calm 
necessity  that  dwells  with  the  matured  man 
to  get  back  to  the  matter  in  hand,  and  dree 
his  weird  whatever  befall,  is  a  badge,  not  a 

6 


WILFRED   WHITTEN'S    PROSE 

burden.  It  is  the  stimulus  of  sound  natures ;  2  May  *o8 
and  as  the  weight  of  his  wife's  arm  niakes 
a  man's  body  proud,  so  the  sense  of  his  use- 
fulness to  the  world  does  but  warm  and  in- 
durate his  soul.  It  is  something  when  a  man 
comes  to  this  mind,  and  with  all  his  capacity 
to  err,  is  abreast  of  life  at  last.  He  shall  not 
regret  the  infrequency  of  his  inspirations, 
for  he  will  know  that  the  day  of  his  strength 
has  set  in.  And  if,  for  poesy,  some  grave 
Virgilian  line  should  pause  on  his  memory, 
or  some  tongue  of  Hebrew  fire  leap  from  the 
ashes  of  his  godly  youth,  it  will  be  enough. 
But  if  cold  duck  await — why,  then,  to  sup- 
perl" 


UGLINESS  IN  FICTION 

p  May  '08  In  the  Edinburgh  Review  there  is  a  dis- 
quisition on  "  Ugliness  in  Fiction."  Prob- 
ably the  author  of  it  has  read  "  Liza  of 
Lambeth,"  and  said  Faugh!  The  article, 
peculiarly  inept,  is  one  of  those  outpourings 
which  every  generation  of  artists  has  to  suf- 
fer with  what  tranquillity  it  can.  Accord- 
ing to  the  Reviewer,  ugliness  is  specially 
rife  "  just  now."  It  is  always  "  just  now." 
It  was  "  just  now  "  when  George  Eliot  wrote 
"  Adam  Bede,"  when  George  Moore  wrote 
"  A  Mummer's  Wife,"  when  Thomas  Hardy 
wrote  "  Jude  the  Obscure."  As  sure  as 
ever  a  novelist  endeavours  to  paint  a  com- 
plete picture  of  life  in  this  honest,  hypo- 
critical country  of  bad  restaurants  and  good 
women;  as  sure  as  ever  he  hints  that  all  is 
not  for  the  best  in  the  best  of  all  possible 
islands,  some  witling  is  bound  to  come  for- 
ward and  point  out  with  wise  finger  that  life 
is  not  all  black.  I  once  resided  near  a  young 
noodle  of  a  Methodist  pastor  who  had  the 
pious  habit  of  reading  novels  aloud  to  his 
father  and  mother.  He  began  to  read  one 
of  mine  to  them,  but  half-way  through 
decided  that  something  of  Charlotte  M. 
Yonge    would    be    less    unsuitable    for    the 

8 


UGLINESS  IN  FICTION 

parental  ear.  He  then  called  and  lectured  p  May  '08 
me.  Among  other  aphorisms  of  his  which  I 
have  treasured  up  was  this :  "  Life,  my  dear 
friend,  is  like  an  April  day — sunshine  and 
shadow  chasing  each  other  over  the  plain." 
That  he  is  not  dead  is  a  great  tribute  to  my 
singular  self-control.  I  suspect  him  to  be 
the  Edinburgh  Reviewer.  At  any  rate,  the 
article  moves  on  the  plane  of  his  plain. 

The  Reviewer  has  the  strange  effrontery 
to  select  Mr.  Joseph  Conrad's  "  Secret 
Agent "  as  an  example  of  modern  ugliness 
in  fiction:  a  novel  that  is  simply  steeped  in 
the  finest  beauty  from  end  to  end.  I  do  not 
suppose  that  the  Edinburgh  Review  has  any 
moulding  influence  upon  the  evolution  of  the 
art  of  fiction  in  this  country.  But  such  non- 
sense may,  after  all,  do  harm  by  confusing 
the  minds  of  people  who  really  are  anxious 
to  encourage  what  is  best,  strongest,  and 
most  sane.  The  Reviewer  in  this  instance, 
for  example,  classes,  as  serious,  Thomas 
Hardy,  Joseph  Conrad,  and  John  Gals- 
worthy, who  are  genuine  creative  forces, 
with  mere  dignified  unimportant  sentimen- 
talisers  like  Mr.  W.  B.  Maxwell.  While 
he  was  on  the  business  of  sifting  the  serious 
from  the  unserious  I  wonder  he  didn't  in- 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

p  May  '08  elude  the  authors  of  "  Three  Weeks "  and 
"  The  Heart  of  a  Child  "  among  the  serious  I 
Perhaps  because  the  latter  wrote  "  Pigs  in 
Clover,"  and  the  former  was  condemned  by 
the  booksellers!  Nobody  could  have  a  lower 
opinion  of  "  Three  Weeks "  than  I  have. 
But  I  have  never  been  able  to  understand 
why  the  poor  little  feeble  story  was  singled 
out  as  an  awful  example  of  female  licentious- 
ness, and  condemned  by  a  hundred  news- 
papers that  had  not  the  courage  to  name  it. 
The  thing  was  merely  infantile  and  absurd. 
Moreover,  I  violently  object  to  booksellers 
sitting  in  judgment  on  novels. 


IQ 


LETTERS  OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA 

The  result  of  Murray  v.  the  Times  is  very  i6  May  '08 
amusing.  I  don't  know  why  the  fact  that 
the  Times  is  called  upon  to  pay  £7500  to 
Mr.  John  Murray  should  make  me  laugh 
joyously;  but  it  does.  Certainly  the  reason 
is  not  that  I  sympathize  with  the  libelled 
Mr.  Murray.  The  action  was  a  great  and  a 
wonderful  action,  full  of  enigmas  for  a  mere 
man  of  letters  like  myself.  For  example, 
Mr.  Murray  said  that  his  agreement  with 
the  "authors"  (I  cannot  imagine  how  Lord 
Esher  and  Mr.  A.  C.  Benson  came  to  be  the 
"  authors "  of  the  late  Queen's  correspond- 
ence) stipulated  that  two-thirds  of  the  profits 
should  go  to  the  "  authors "  and  one-third 
to  Mr.  Murray.  Secondly,  Mr.  Murray  said 
that  he  paid  the  authors  £5592  14s.  2d. 
Thirdly,  he  said  that  his  own  profit  was 
£600.  Hence  £600  is  the  half  of  £5592 
14s.  2d.  I  have  no  doubt  that  there  exists 
some  quite  simple  explanation  of  this  new 
arithmetic;  only  it  has  not  occurred  to  me, 
my  name  not  being  Colenso.  The  whole  en- 
terprise was  regal,  as  befitted.  Proof-correc- 
tions cost  twice  as  much  as  the  original  set- 
ting up !  A  mere  man  of  letters  would  be  in- 
clined to  suspect  that  the  printing  was  begun 

II 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i6  May  '08  too  soon;  it  is  usual  to  postpone  setting-up  a 
book  until  the  book  is  written.  Balzac  par- 
tially beggared  himself  by  ignoring  this  rule. 
Balzac,  however,  was  not  published  by  Mr. 
Murray.  £950  was  paid  to  the  amanuensis  I 
Oh,  amanuensis,  how  I  wonder  who  you 
are,  up  above  the  world  so  high,  like  a 
fashionable  novelist  in  the  sky!    And  so  on. 

The  attitude  of  Tunb ridge  Wells  (the  most 
plutocratic  town  in  England,  by  the  way) 
towards  the  book  was  adorable.  "  Mr. 
Daniel  Williams,  a  bookseller  and  librarian, 
of  Tunbridge  Wells,  said  that  after  the 
review  by  *  Artifex '  people  complained 
that  the  price  of  the  book  was  too  high.  No 
complaints  were  made  before  that."  They 
read  their  Times  Literary  Supplement  at  the 
Wells,  and  they  still  wait  for  it  to  thunder, 
and  when  it  has  thundered — and  not  before 
— they  rattle  their  tea-trays,  and  the  sequel 
is  red  ruin!  Again,  Mr.  Justice  Darling,  in 
his  ineptly  decorated  summing-up,  observed 
that  it  was  hardly  too  much  to  say  that 
"  the  plaintiff's  house — the  house  of  Mur- 
ray," was  a  national  institution.  It  would 
be  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  also  the 
house  of  Crosse  and  Blackwell  is  a  national 
institution,  and  that  Mr.  Justice  Darling  is  a 

12 


LETTERS  OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA 

national  institution.  By  all  means  let  us  i6  May  '08 
count  the  brothers  Murray  as  a  national 
institution,  even  as  an  Imperial  institution. 
But  let  us  guard  against  the  notion,  every- 
where cropping  up,  that  such  "  houses  "  as 
the  dignified  and  wealthy  house  of  Murray 
are  in  some  mysterious  way  responsible  for 
English  literature,  part-authors  of  English 
literature,  to  whom  half  of  the  glory  of 
English  literature  is  due.  It  is  well  to 
remember  now  and  then  that  publishers  who 
have  quite  squarely  made  vast  sums  out  of 
selling  the  work  of  creative  artists  are  not 
thereby  creative  artists  themselves.  A  pub- 
lisher is  a  tradesman;  infinitely  less  an  artist 
than  a  tailor  is  an  artist.  Often  a  pub- 
lisher knows  what  the  public  will  buy  in 
literature.  Very  rarely  he  knows  what  is 
good  literature.  Scarcely  ever  will  he  issue 
a  distinguished  book  exclusively  because  it  is 
a  distinguished  book.  And  he  is  right,  for 
he  is  only  a  tradesman.  But  to  judge  from 
the  otiose  majesty  of  some  publishers,  one 
would  imagine  that  they  had  written  at 
least  "  Childe  Harold."  There  is  the  case  of 
a  living  publisher  (not  either  of  the  brothers 
Murray)  whose  presence  at  his  country 
chateau  is  indicated  to  the  surrounding 
nobility,     gentry,     and     peasantry     by     the 

13 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i6  May  '08  unfurling    of    the    Royal    standard    over    a 
turret 

To  return  to  the  subject,  the  price  at 
which  the  house  of  Murray  issued  the 
"  Letters  of  Queen  Victoria "  was  not 
"  extortionate,"  having  regard  to  the 
astounding  expenses  of  publication.  But 
why  were  the  expenses  so  astounding?  If 
the  book  had  not  been  one  which  by  its 
intrinsic  interest  compelled  purchase,  would 
the  "  authors "  have  been  remunerated  like 
the  managers  of  a  steel  trust?  Would  the 
paper  have  been  so  precious  and  costly? 
Would  the  illustrations  have  so  enriched 
photographers?  And  would  the  amanuensis 
have  made  .£350  more  out  of  the  thing  than 
Mr.  Murray  himself?  The  price  was  not 
extortionate.  But  it  was  farcical.  The 
entire  rigmarole  combines  to  throw  into 
dazzling  prominence  the  fact  that  modern 
literature  in  this  country  is  still  absolutely 
undemocratic.  The  time  will  come,  and 
much  sooner  than  many  august  mandarins 
anticipate,  when  such  a  book  as  the  "  Letters 
of  Queen  Victoria "  will  be  issued  at  six 
shillings,  and  newspapers  will  be  fined 
£7500  for  saying  that  the  price  is  extor- 
tionate   and    ought    not    to    exceed    half-a- 


LETTERS  OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA 

crown.  Assuredly  there  is  no  commercial  i6  May  '08 
reason  why  the  book  should  not  have  been 
published  at  6s.  or  thereabouts.  Only 
mandarinism  prevented  that.  Mr.  Murray's 
profits  would  have  been  greater,  though 
"  authors,"  amanuenses,  photographers, 
paper-makers,  West-End  booksellers,  and 
other  parasitic  artisans  might  have  suffered 
slightly. 


IS 


FRENCH  PUBLISHERS 

2s  May  '08  It  has  commonly  been  supposed  that 
the  publication  of  Flaubert's  "  Madame 
Bovary "  resulted,  at  first,  in  a  loss  to  the 
author.  I  am  sure  that  everyone  will 
be  extremely  relieved  to  learn,  from  a 
letter  recently  printed  in  "  L'Intermediaire  " 
(the  French  equivalent  of  "Notes  and 
Queries"),  that  the  supposition  is  incorrect. 
Here  is  a  translation  of  part  of  the  letter, 
written  by  the  celebrated  publishers,  Poulet- 
Malassis,  to  an  author  unnamed.  The  whole 
letter  is  very  interesting,  and  it  would 
probably  reconcile  the  "  author "  of  the 
correspondence  of  Queen  Victoria  to  the 
sweating  system  by  which  they  received 
the  miserable  sum  of  £5592  14s.  2d.  from 
Mr.  John  Murray  for  their  Titanic  labours. 

23  October,  1857. 
"  I  think,  sir,  that  you  are  in  error  as  to 
Messrs.  Levy's  method  of  doing  business. 
Messrs.  Levy  buy  for  400  francs  [£i6]  the 
right  to  publish  a  book  during  four  years.  It 
was  on  these  terms  that  they  bought  the 
stories  of  Jules  de  la  Madeleine,  Flaubert's 
"  Madame  Bovary,"  etc.  These  facts  are 
within  my  knowledge.    To  take  an  example 

16 


FRENCH  PUBLISHERS 

among     translations,      they     bought      from  23  May  '08 

Baudelaire,    for    400    francs,    the    right    to 

publish  6,000  copies  of  his  Poe.    We  do  not 

work  in  this  way.     We  buy  for  200  francs 

(£8)  the  right  to  publish  an  edition  of  1,200 

copies.   ...   If  the  book  succeeds,  so  much 

the  better  for  the  author,  who  makes  200 

francs  out  of  every  edition  of  1,200  copies. 

If  M.  Flaubert,  whose  book  is  in  its  third 

edition,  had  come  to  us  instead  of  to  Messrs. 

Levy,  his  book  would  already  have  brought 

him  in  1,000  francs  (£40);  during  the  four 

years  that  Messrs.  Levy  will  have  the  rights 

of  his  book  for  a  total  payment  of  400  francs, 

he  might  have  made  two  or  three  thousand 

francs    with    us.   .    .    .   Votre    vien    devoue, 

A.  P.  Malassis. 

We  now  know  that  Flaubert  made  £16  in 
four  years  out  of  "  Madame  Bovary," 
which  went  into  three  editions  within 
considerably  less  than  a  year  of  publication. 
And  yet  the  house  of  Levy  is  one  of  the 
most  respectable  and  grandoise  in  France. 
Moral:  English  authors  ought  to  go  down 
on  their  knees  and  thank  God  that  English 
publishers  are  not  as  other  publishers.  At 
least,  not  always! 

17 


WORDSWORTH'S  SINGLE  LINES 
30  May  '08  I  HAVE  had  great  joy  in  Mr.  Nowell 
Charles  Smith's  new  and  comprehensive 
edition  of  Wordsworth,  published  by 
Methuen  in  three  volumes  as  majestic  as 
Wordsworth  himself  at  his  most  pontifical. 
The  price  is  fifteen  shillings  net,  and  having 
regard  to  the  immense  labour  involved  in 
such  an  edition,  it  is  very  cheap.  I  would 
sooner  pay  fifteen  shillings  for  a  real  book 
like  this  than  a  guinea  for  the  memories  of 
any  tin  god  that  ever  sat  up  at  nights  to 
keep  a  diary;  yea,  even  though  the  average 
collection  of  memoirs  will  furnish  material 
to  light  seven  hundred  pipes.  We  have 
lately  been  much  favoured  with  first-rate 
editions  of  poets.  I  mention  Mr.  de  Selin- 
court's  Keats,  and  Mr.  George  Sampson's 
amazing  and  not-to-be-sufficiently-lauded 
Blake.  Mr.  Smith's  work  is  worthy  to  stand 
on  the  same  shelf  with  these.  A  shining 
virtue  of  Mr.  Smith's  edition  is  that  it  em- 
bodies the  main  results  of  the  researches  and 
excavations  not  only  of  Professor  Knight, 
but,  more  important,  of  the  wonderful  Mr. 
Hutchinson,     whose     contributions     to     the 

18 


WORDSWORTH'S  SINGLE  LINES 

Academy,  in  days  of  yore,  were  the  delight  30  May  '08 
of  Wbrdsworthians. 


Personally,  I  became  a  member  of  the 
order  of  Wordsworthians  in  the  historic  year 
1891,  when  Matthew  Arnold's  "Selections" 
were  issued  to  the  public  at  the  price  of  half- 
a-crown.  I  suppose  that  Matthew  Arnold 
and  Sir  Leslie  Stephen  were  the  two  sanest 
Wordsworthians  of  us  all.  And  Matthew 
Arnold  put  Wordsworth  above  all  modern 
poets  except  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Goethe, 
Milton,  and  Moliere.  The  test  of  a  Words- 
worthian  is  the  ability  to  read  with  pleasure 
every  line  that  the  poet  wrote.  I  regret  to 
say  that,  strictly,  Matthew  Arnold  was  not  a 
perfect  Wordsworthian ;  he  confessed,  with 
manly  sincerity,  that  he  could  not  read 
"  Vaudracour  and  Julia "  with  pleasure. 
This  was  a  pity  and  Matthew  Arnold's  loss. 
For  a  strict  Wordsworthian,  while  utterly 
conserving  his  reverence  for  the  most  poetic 
of  poets,  can  discover  a  keen  ecstasy  in  the 
perusal  of  the  unconsciously  funny  lines 
which  Wordsworth  was  constantly  perpe- 
trating. And  I  would  back  myself  to  win 
the  first  prize  in  any  competition  for  Words- 
worth's funniest  line  with  a  quotation  from 

19 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

?o  May  '08  "  Vaudracour    and    Julia."      My    prize-line 
would  assuredly  be: 

Yea,   his  first  word  of  greeting  was, — ^ 
''All  right   ... 

It  is  true  that  the  passage  goes  on: 

Is  gone  from  me.   .    .    . 

But  that  does  not  impair  the  magnificent 
funniness. 

From  his  tenderest  years  Wordsworth 
succeeded  in  combining  the  virtues  of  Milton 
and  of  Punch  in  a  manner  that  no  other  poet 
has  approached.  Thus,  at  the  age  of  eight- 
een, he  could  write: 

Now  while  the  solemn  evening  shadows  sail, 
On  slowly-waving  pinions,  down  the  vale; 
And    fronting    the    bright    west,    yon    oak 

entwines 
Its  darkening  boughs.   .    .    . 

Which  really  is  rather  splendid  for  a  boy. 
And  he  could  immediately  follow  that, 
speaking  of  a  family  of  swans,  with: 

While  tender  cares  and  mild  domestic  loves 
With  furtive  watch  pursue  her  as  she  moves. 
The  female  with  a  meeker  charm  succeeds.  .  . 

20 


WORDSWORTH'S  SINGLE  LINES 

Wordsworth  richly  atoned  for  his  uncon-  30  May  '08 
scious  farcicalness  by  a  multitude  of  single 
lines  that,  in  their  pregnant  sublimity,  attend 
the  Wordsworthian  like  a  shadow  through- 
out his  life,  warning  him  continually  when 
he  is  in  danger  of  making  a  fool  of  himself. 
Thus,  whenever  through  mere  idleness  I 
begin  to  waste  the  irrecoverable  moments  of 
eternity,  I  always  think  of  that  masterly 
phrase  (from,  I  think,  the  "  Prelude,"  but 
I  will  not  be  sure) : 

Unprofitably  travelling  towards  the  grave. 

This  line  is  a  most  convenient  and  effective 
stone  to  throw  at  one's  languid  friends. 
Finally  let  me  hail  Mr.  Nowell  Smith  as  a 
benefactor. 


21 


NOVELISTS  AND  AGENTS 
20  June  '08  A  BAD.  publishing  season  is  now  drawing 
to  a  close,  and  in  the  air  are  rumours  of  a 
crisis.  Of  course  the  fault  is  the  author's. 
It  goes  without  saying  that  the  fault  is  the 
author's.  In  the  first  place,  he  will  insist 
on  producing  mediocre  novels.  (For  natu- 
rally the  author  is  a  novelist;  only  novelists 
count  when  crises  loom.  Algernon  Charles 
Swinburne,  Edward  Carpenter,  Robert 
Bridges,  Lord  Morley — these  types  have  no 
relation  to  crises.)  It  appears  that  the 
publishers  have  been  losing  money  over  the 
six-shilling  novel,  and  that  they  are  not  going 
to  stand  the  loss  any  longer.  It  is  stated 
that  never  in  history  were  novels  so  atro- 
ciously mediocre  as  they  arb  to-day.  And 
in  the  second  place,  the  author  will  insist 
on  employing  an  Unspeakable  Rascal  en- 
titled a  literary  agent,  and  the  poor  innocent 
lamb  of  a  publisher  is  fleeced  to  the  naked 
skin  by  this  scoundrel  every  time  the  two 
meet.  Already  I  have  heard  that  one 
publisher,  hitherto  accustomed  to  the  serv- 
ices of  twenty  gardeners  at  his  country 
house,  has  been  obliged  to  reduce  the  horti- 
cultural staff  to  eighteen. 

22 


NOVELISTS  AND  AGENTS 

Such  is  the  publishers'  explanation  of  the  20  June  '68 
crisis.  I  shall  keep  my  own  explanation  till 
the  crisis  is  a  little  more  advanced  and  ready 
to  burst.  In  the  meantime  I  should  like  to 
ask:  How  do  people  manage  to  range  over 
the  whole  period  of  the  novel's  history  and 
definitely  decide  that  novels  were  never  so 
bad  as  they  are  now?  I  am  personally 
inclined  to  think  that  at  no  time  has  the 
average  novel  been  so  good  as  it  is  to-day. 
(This  view,  by  the  way,  is  borne  out  by 
publishers'  own  advertisements,  which 
abound  in  the  word  "  masterpiece "  quoted 
from  infallible  critics  of  great  master- 
pieces!) Let  any  man  who  disagrees  with 
me  dare  go  to  Mudie's  and  get  out  a  few 
forgotten  novels  of  thirty  years  ago  and  try 
to  read  them!  Also,  I  am  prepared  to  offer 
£50  for  the  name  and  address  of  a  literary 
agent  who  is  capable  of  getting  the  better 
of  a  publisher.  I  am  widely  acquainted 
with  publishers  and  literary  agents,  and 
though  I  have  often  met  publishers  who  have 
got  the  better  of  literary  agents,  I  have  never 
met  a  literary  agent  who  has  come  out  on 
top  of  a  publisher.  Such  a  literary  agent  is 
badly  wanted.  I  have  been  looking  for  him 
for  years.  I  know  a  number  of  authors  who 
would   join    me    in   enriching   that   literary 

23 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

20  June  '08  agent.  The  publishers  are  always  talking 
about  him.  I  seldom  go  into  a  publisher's 
office  but  that  literary  agent  has  just  left 
(gorged  with  illicit  gold).  It  irritates  me 
that  I  cannot  run  across  him.  If  I  were  a 
publisher,  he  would  have  been  in  prison  ere 
now.  Briefly,  the  manner  in  which  certain 
prominent  publishers,  even  clever  ones,  talk 
about  literary  agents  is  silly. 

Still,  I  am  ready  to  believe  that  publishers 
have  lost  money  over  the  six-shilling  novel. 
I  am  acquainted  with  the  details  of  several 
instances  of  such  loss.  And  in  every  case 
the  loss  has  been  the  result  of  gambling  on 
the  part  of  the  publisher.  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say  that  the  terms  offered  in  late  years  by 
some  publishers  to  some  popular  favourites 
have  been  grotesquely  inflated.  Publishers 
compete  among  themselves,  and  then,  when 
the  moment  comes  for  paying  the  gambler's 
penalty,  they  complain  of  having  been 
swindled.  Note  that  the  losses  of  publish- 
ers are  nearly  always  on  the  works  of  the 
idols  of  the  crowd.  They  want  the  idol's 
name  as  an  ornament  to  their  lists,  and  they 
commit  indiscretions  in  order  to  get  it  Fan- 
tastic terms  are  never  offered  to  the  solid, 
regular,  industrious  medium  novelist.     And 

24 


NOVELISTS  AND  AGENTS 

it  is  a  surety  that  fantastic  terms  are  never  20  June  *o8 
offered  to  the  beginner.    Ask,  and  learn. 

But  though  I  admit  that  money  has  been 
lost,  I  do  not  think  the  losses  have  been 
heavy.  After  all,  no  idolized  author  and 
no  diabolic  agent  can  force  a  publisher  to 
pay  more  than  he  really  wants  to  pay.  And 
no  diabolic  agent,  having  once  bitten  a 
publisher,  can  persuade  that  publisher  to 
hold  out  his  generous  hand  to  be  bitten  again. 
These  are  truisms.  Lastly,  I  am  quite  sure 
that,  out  of  books,  a  great  deal  more  money 
has  been  made  by  publishers  than  by 
authors,  and  that  this  will  always  be  so. 
The  threatened  crisis  in  publishing  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  prices  paid  to 
authors,  which  on  the  whole  are  now  fairly 
just  (very  different  from  what  they  were 
twenty  years  ago,  when  authors  had  to  accept 
whatever  was  condescendingly  offered  to 
them).  And  if  a  crisis  does  come,  the 
people  to  suffer  will  happily  be  those  who 
can  best  afford  to  suffer. 


25 


THE  NOVEL  OF  THE  SEASON 

II  July  '08  The  publishing  season — the  bad  publish- 
ing season — is  now  practically  over,  and 
publishers  may  go  away  for  their  holidays 
comforted  by  the  fact  that  they  will  not 
begin  to  lose  money  again  till  the  autumn. 
It  only  remains  to  be  decided  which  is  the 
novel  of  the  season.  Those  interested  in  the 
question  may  expect  it  to  be  decided  at  any 
moment,  either  in  the  British  Weekly  or  the 
Sphere.  I  take  up  these  journals  with  a  thrill 
of  anticipation.  For  my  part,  I  am  deter- 
mined only  to  decide  which  is  not  the  novel 
of  the  season.  There  are  several  novels 
which  are  not  the  novel  of  the  season.  Per- 
haps the  chief  of  them  is  Mr.  E.  C.  Booth's 
"  The  Cliff  End,"  which  counts  among  sun- 
dry successes  to  the  score  of  Mr.  Grant 
Richards.  Everything  has  been  done  for  it 
that  reviewing  can  do,  and  it  has  sold,  and 
it  is  an  ingenious  and  giggling  work,  but 
not  the  novel  of  the  season. 

The  reviews  of  "  The  Cliff  End,"  almost 
unanimously  laudatory,  show  in  a  bright 
light  our  national  indifference  to  composition 
in  art.  Some  reviewers,  while  stating  that 
the  story  itself  was  a  poor  one,  insisted  that 

26 


THE  NOVEL  OF  THE  SEASON 

Mr.  Booth  is  a  born  and  accomplished  story-  u  July  '08 
teller.  Story-tellers  born  and  accomplished 
do  not  tell  poor  stories.  A  poor  story  is  the 
work  of  a  poor  story-teller.  And  the  story 
of  "  The  Cliff  End  "  is  merely  absurd.  It  is 
worse,  if  possible,  than  the  story  of  Mr.  Max- 
well's "  Vivien,"  which  reviewers  accepted. 
It  would  appear  that  with  certain  novels 
the  story  doesn't  matter!  I  really  believe 
that  composition,  the  foundation  of  all  arts, 
including  the  art  of  fiction,  is  utterly  uncon- 
sidered in  England.  Or  if  it  is  considered, 
it  is  painfully  misunderstood.  I  remember 
how  the  panjandrums  condescendingly 
pointed  out  the  bad  construction  of  Mr. 
Joseph  Conrad's  "  Lord  Jim,"  one  of  the 
most  noble  examples  of  fine  composition  in 
modern  literature,  and  but  slightly  dis- 
figured by  a  detail  of  clumsy  machinery. 
In  "  The  Cliff  End "  there  is  simply  no 
composition  that  is  not  clumsy  and  conven- 
tional. All  that  can  be  said  of  it  is  that 
you  can't  read  a  page,  up  to  about  page  200, 
without  grinning.  (Unhappily  Mr.  Booth 
overestimated  his  stock  of  grins,  which  ran 
out  untimely.)  The  true  art  of  fiction,  how- 
ever, is  not  chiefly  connected  with  grinning, 
or  with  weeping.  It  consists,  first  and 
mainly,  in  a  beautiful  general  composition. 

27 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

II  July  '08  But  in  Anglo-Saxon  countries  any  writer 
who  can  induce  both  a  grin  and  a  tear  on 
the  same  page,  no  matter  how  insolent  his 
contempt  for  composition,  is  sure  of  that 
immortality  which  contemporaries  can 
award. 

Another  novel  that  is  not  the  novel  of  the 
season  is  Mr.  John  Ayscough's  "  Marotz," 
about  which  much  has  been  said.  I  do  not 
wish  to  labour  this  point.  "  Marotz  "  is  not 
the  novel  of  the  season.  I  trust  that  I  make 
myself  plain.  I  shall  not  pronounce  upon 
Mr.  Masefield's  "  Captain  Margaret,"  be- 
cause, though  it  has  been  splashed  all  over 
by  trowelsful  of  slabby  and  mortarish  praise, 
it  has  real  merits.  Indeed,  it  has  a  chance 
of  being  the  novel  of  the  season.  Mr.  Mase- 
field  is  not  yet  grown  up.  He  is  always 
trying  to  write  "  literature,"  and  that  is  a 
great  mistake.  He  should  study  the  wisdom 
of  Paul  Verlaine: 

"  Prends  I'eloquence  et  tords-lui  son  cou." 

Take  literature  and  wring  its  neck.  I  sup- 
pose that  Mr.  H.  de  Vere  Stacpoole's  "  The 
Blue  Lagoon  "  is  not  likely  to  be  selected  as 
the  novel  of  the  season.  And  yet,  possibly, 
it  will  be  the  novel  of  the  season  after  all, 

28 


THE  NOVEL  OF  THE  SEASON 

though  unchosen.  I  will  not  labour  this  //  July  '08 
point,  either.  Anyone  read  "  The  Blue 
Lagoon  "  yet?  Some  folks  have  read  it,  for 
it  is  in  its  sixth  edition.  But  when  I  say 
anyone,  I  mean  someone,  not  mere  folks. 
It  might  be  worth  looking  into,  "  The  Blue 
Lagoon."  Verbum  sap.,  often,  to  Messrs. 
Robertson  Nicoll  and  Shorter.  In  choosing 
"  Confessio  Medici  "  as  the  book  of  the  season 
in  general  literature.  Dr.  Nicoll*  has  already 
come  a  fearful  cropper,  and  he  must  regret 
it.  I  would  give  much  to  prevent  him  from 
afflicting  the  intelligent  when  the  solemn 
annual  moment  arrives  for  him  to  make  the 
reputation  of  a  novelist. 

♦Now  Sir  William  Robertson  NicolL 


29 


GERMAN  EXPANSION 

i8  July  '08  I  THINK  I  could  read  anything  about 
German  Colonial  expansion.  The  subject 
may  not  appear  to  be  attractive;  but  it  is. 
The  reason  lies  in  the  fact  that  one  is  always 
maliciously  interested  in  the  failures  of 
pompous  and  conceited  persons.  In  the 
same  way,  one  is  conscious  of  disappoint- 
ment that  the  Navy  pother  has  not  blos- 
somed into  a  naked  scandal..  A  naked 
scandal  would  be  a  bad  thing,  and  yet  one 
feels  cheated  because  it  has  not  occurred. 
At  least  I  do.  And  I  am  rather  human.  I 
can  glut  myself  on  German  colonial  expan- 
sion— a  wondrous  flower.  I  have  just  read 
with  genuine  avidity  M.  Tonnelat's  "  L'Ex- 
pansion  Allemande  hors  d'Europe"  (Armand 
Colin,  3frs.  50).  It  is  a  very  good  book. 
Most  of  it  does  not  deal  with  colonial 
expansion,  but  with  the  growth  and  organi- 
zation of  Germania  in  the  United  States  and 
Brazil.  There  is  some  delicious  psychology 
in  this  part  of  the  book.  Hear  the  German 
Governor  of  Pennsylvania:  "As  for  me,  I 
consider  that  if  the  influence  of  the  German 
colonist  had  been  eliminated  from  Pennsyl- 
vania, Philadelphia  would  never  have  been 
anything   but   an   ordinary   American    town 

30 


GERMAN  EXPANSION 

like  Boston,  New  York,  Baltimore,  or  i8  My  *d8 
Chicago."  M.  Tonnelat  gives  a  masterly 
and  succinct  account  of  the  relations  between 
Germans  and  native  races  in  Africa  (par- 
ticularly the  Herreros).  It  is  farcical,  dis- 
astrous, piquant,  and  grotesque.  The  docu- 
mentation is  admirably  done.  What  can 
you  do  but  smile  when  you  gather  from  a 
table  that  for  the  murder  of  seven  Germans 
by  natives  fifteen  capital  punishments 
and  one  life-imprisonment  were  awarded; 
whereas,  for  the  murder  of  five  natives 
(including  a  woman)  by  Germans,  the  total 
punishment  was  six  and  a  quarter  years  of 
prison.  In  1906  the  amazing  German 
Colonial  Empire  cost  180  millions  of  marks. 
A  high  price  to  pay  for  a  comic  opera,  even 
with  real  waterfalls!  M.  Tonnelat  has 
combined  sobriety  and  exactitude  with  an 
exciting  readableness. 


31 


THE  BOOK-BUYER 
22  Aug.  'g8  In  the  month  of  August,  when  the  book 
trade  is  supposed  to  be  dead,  but  which, 
nevertheless,  sees  the  publication  of  novels 
by  Joseph  Conrad  and  Marie  Corelli  (if 
Joseph  Conrad  is  one  Pole,  Marie  Corelli  is 
surely  the  other),  I  have  had  leisure  to  think 
upon  the  most  curious  of  all  the  problems 
that  afifect  the  author:  Who  buys  boaks?  Who 
really  does  buy  books?  We  grumble  at  the 
lack  of  enterprise  shown  by  booksellers.  We 
inveigh  against  that  vague  and  long-suffering 
body  of  tradesmen  because  in  the  immortal 
Strand,  where  there  are  forty  tobacconists, 
thirty-nine  restaurants,  half  a  dozen  theatres, 
seventeen  necktie  shops,  one  Short's,  and 
one  thousand  three  hundred  and  fourteen 
tea  cafes,  there  should  be  only  two  estab- 
lishments for  the  sale  of  new  books.  We 
are  shocked  that  in  the  whole  of  Regent 
Street  it  is  impossible  to  buy  a  new  book. 
We  shudder  when,  in  crossing  the  virgin 
country  of  the  suburbs,  we  travel  for  days 
and  never  see  a  single  bookshop.  But  whose 
fault  is  it  that  bookshops  are  so  few?  Are 
booksellers  people  who  have  a  conscientious 
objection  to  selling  books?  Or  is  it  that 
nobody  wants  to  buy  books? 

32 


THE  BOOK-BUYER 

Personally,  I  extract  some  sort  of  a  living  22  'Aug.  *o8 
» — a  clog's  existence — from  the  sale  of  books 
with  my  name  on  the  title-page.  And  I  am 
acquainted  with  a  few  other  individuals  who 
perform  the  same  feat.  I  am  also 
acquainted  with  a  large  number  of  indi- 
viduals who  have  no  connexion  with  the 
manufacture  or  distribution  of  literature. 
And  when  I  reflect  upon  the  habits  of  this 
latter  crowd,  I  am  astonished  that  I  or  any- 
body else  can  succeed  in  paying  rent  out  of 
what  comes  to  the  author  from  the  sale  of 
books.  I  know  scarcely  a  soul,  I  have 
scarcely  ever  met  a  soul,  who  can  be  said 
to  make  a  habit  of  buying  new  books.  I 
know  a  few  souls  who  borrow  books  from 
Mudie's  and  elsewhere,  and  I  recognize  that 
their  subscriptions  yield  me  a  trifle.  But 
what  a  trifle!  Do  you  know  anybody  who 
really  buys  new  books?  Have  you  ever 
heard  tell  of  such  a  being?  Of  course,  there 
are  Franklinish  and  self-improving  young 
men  (and  conceivably  women)  who  buy 
cheap  editions  of  works  which  the  world  will 
not  willingly  let  die:  the  Temple  Classics, 
Everyman's  Library,  the  World's  Classics, 
the  Universal  Library.  Such  volumes  are 
to  be  found  in  many  refined  and  strenuous 
homes — oftener     unopened     than     opened — 

33 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

22  Aug.  '08  but  Still  there!  But  does  this  estimable 
practice  aid  the  living  author  to  send  his 
children  to  school  in  decent  clothes?  He 
whom  I  am  anxious  to  meet  is  the  man  who 
will  not  willingly  let  die  the  author  who  is 
not  yet  dead.  No  society  for  the  prevention 
of  the  death  of  corpses  will  help  me  to  pay 
my  butcher's  bill. 

I  know  that  people  buy  motor-cars,  for 
the  newspapers  are  full  of  the  dust  of  them. 
I  know  that  they  buy  seats  in  railway-car- 
riages and  theatres,  and  meals  at  restau- 
rants, and  cravats  of  the  new  colour,  and 
shares  in  companies,  for  they  talk  about  their 
purchases,  and  rise  into  ecstasies  of  praise 
or  blame  concerning  them.  I  want  to  learn 
about  the  people  who  buy  new  books —  mod- 
est band  who  never  praise  nor  blame,  nor 
get  excited  over  their  acquisitions,  prefer- 
ring to  keep  silence,  preferring  to  do  good 
in  secret!  Let  an  enterprising  inventor  put 
a  new  tyre  on  the  market,  and  every  single 
purchaser  will  write  to  the  Press  and  state 
that  he  has  bought  it  and  exactly  what  he 
thinks  about  it.  Yet,  though  the  purchasers 
of  a  fairly  popular  new  book  must  be  as 
numerous  as  the  purchasers  of  a  new  tyre, 
not  one  of  them  ever  "  lets  on  "  that  he  has 

34 


THE  BOOK-BUYER 

purchased.  I  want  some  book-buyers  to  22  Aug.  '08 
come  forward  and  at  any  rate  state  that  they 
have  bought  a  book,  with  some  account  of 
the  adventure.  I  should  then  feel  partly 
reassured.  I  should  know  by  demonstra- 
tion, that  a  book-buyer  did  exist;  whereas 
at  present  all  I  can  do  is  to  assume  the 
existence  of  a  book-buyer  whom  I  have  never 
seen,  and  whom  nobody  has  ever  seen.  It 
seems  to  me  that  if  a  few  book-buyers  would 
kindly  come  forward  and  confess — ^with 
proper  statistics — the  result  would  be  a  few 
columns  quite  pleasant  to  read  in  the  quie- 
tude of  September. 


35 


JOSEPH  CONRAD  AND  THE 
ATHENMUM 

19  Sep.  '08  The  AthencBum  is  a  serious  journal, 
genuinely  devoted  to  learning.  The  mis- 
chief is  that  it  will  persist  in  talking  about 
literature.  I  do  not  wish  to  be  accused  of 
breaking  a  butterfly  on  a  wheel,  but  the 
Athenceum's  review  of  Mr.  Joseph  Conrad's 
new  book,  "  A  Set  of  Six,"  in  its  four 
thousand  two  hundred  and  eighteenth  issue, 
really  calls  for  protest.  At  that  age  the 
AthentBum  ought,  at  any  rate,  to  know 
better  than  to  make  itself  ridiculous.  It  owes 
an  apology  to  Mr.  Conrad.  Here  we  have 
a  Pole  who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  come 
from  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  England,  to 
learn  to  speak  the  English  language,  and 
to  write  it  like  a  genius;  and  he  is  received 
in  this  grotesque  fashion  by  the  leading 
literary  journal!  Truly,  the  Athenaum's 
review  resembles  nothing  so  much  as  the 
antics  of  a  provincial  mayor  round  a  foreign 
monarch  sojourning  in  his  town. 

For,  of  course,  the  Athenaum  is  obse- 
quious. In  common  with  every  paper  in 
this  country,  it  has  learnt  that  the  proper 
thing  is  to  praise  Mr.  Conrad's  work.     Not 

36 


CONRAD  AND  THE  ATHENMVM 

to    appreciate   Mr.    Conrad's   work    at    this  19  Sep.  '08 

time   of   day   would   amount   to   bad   form. 

There  is  a  cliche  in  nearly  every  line  of  the 

Athenceum's    discriminating    notice.      "  Mr. 

Conrad    is    not   the    kind   of    author   whose 

work  one  is  content  to  meet  only  in  fugitive 

form,"    etc.     "  Those    who    appreciate    fine 

craftsmanship  in  fiction,"  etc.     But  there  is 

worse   than  cliches.     For  example:    "It  is 

too   studiously   chiselled   and   hammered-out 

for   that."      (God   alone   knows   for  what.) 

Imagine  the  effect  of  studiously  chiselling  a 

work  and  then  hammering  it  out!     Useful 

process!     I  wonder  the  Athenaum  did  not 

suggest  that  Mr.  Conrad,  having  written  a 

story,  took  it  to  Brooklands  to  get  it  run  over 

by   a   motor-car.     Again:   "His   effects   are 

studiously   wrought,    although — such    is    his 

mastery  of  literary  art — they  produce  a  swift 

and    penetrating    impression."      Impossible 

not  to  recall  the  weighty  judgment  of  one 

of    Stevenson's    characters    upon    the    Athe- 

nceum:    "Golly,  what  a  paper!" 

The  AthencBum  further  says:  "His  is  not 
at  all  the  impressionistic  method."  Prob- 
ably the  impressionistic  method  is  merely 
any  method  that  the  Athenceum  doesn't  like. 
But  one  would  ask:   Has  it  ever  read  the 

Z7 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

ip  Sep.  '08  opening  paragraph  of  "  The  Return,"  per- 
haps the  most  dazzling  feat  of  impressionism 
in  modern  English?  The  Athenceum  says 
also :  "  Upon  the  whole,  we  do  not  think 
the  short  story  represents  Mr.  Conrad's  true 
metier."  It  may  be  that  Mr.  Conrad's  true 
metier  was,  after  all,  that  of  an  auctioneer; 
but,  after  "Youth,"  "To-morrow,"  "Ty- 
phoon," "  Karain,"  "  The  End  of  the  Tether," 
and  half  a  dozen  other  mere  masterpieces, 
he  may  congratulate  himself  on  having  made 
a  fairly  successful  hobby  of  the  short 
story.  The  most  extraordinary  of  all  the 
Athenaum's  remarks  is  this:  "The  one  ship 
story  here,  '  The  Brute,'  makes  us  regret 
that  the  author  does  not  give  us  more  of 
the  sea  in  his  work."  Well,  considering 
that  about  two-thirds  of  Mr.  Conrad's  work 
deals  with  the  sea,  considering  that  he  has 
written  "  Lord  Jim,"  "  The  Nigger  of  the 
Narcissus,"  "  Typhoon,"  "  Nostromo,"  and 
"  The  Mirror  of  the  Sea,"  this  regret  shall 
be  awarded  the  gold  medal  of  the  silly 
season.  If  the  Athenceum  were  a  silly 
paper,  like  the  Academy,  I  should  have  kept 
an  august  silence  on  this  ineptitude.  But 
the  Athenceum  has  my  respect.  It  ought  to 
remember  the  responsibilities  of  its  posi- 
tion, and  ought  not  to  entrust  an  important 

38 


CONRAD   AND   THE   ATHENMUM 

work  of  letters  to  some  one  whose  most  obvi-  /p  Sep.  '08 
ous  characteristic  is  an  exquisite  and  pro- 
found incompetence  for  criticism.  The  ex- 
planation that  occurs  to  me  is  that  "  A  Set  of 
Six  "  and  "  Diana  Mallory  "  got  mixed  on 
the  AthencBum's  library  table,  and  that  each 
was  despatched  to  the  critic  chosen  for  the 
other. 

"A  Set  of  Six"  will  not  count  among 
Mr.  Conrad's  major  works.  But  in  the 
mere  use  of  English  it  shows  an  advance 
upon  all  his  previous  books.  In  some  of  his 
finest  chapters  there  is  scarcely  a  page  with- 
out a  phrase  that  no  Englishman  would  have 
written,  and  in  nearly  every  one  of  his  books 
slight  positive  errors  in  the  use  of  English 
are  fairly  common.  In  "  A  Set  of  Six  "  1 
have  detected  no  error  and  extremely  few 
questionable  terms.  The  influence  of  his 
deep  acquaintance  with  French  is  shown 
in  the  position  of  the  adverb  in  "  I  saw 
again  somebody  in  the  porch."  It  cannot 
be  called  bad  English,  but  it  is  queer.  "  Inas- 
much that "  could  certainly  be  defended 
(compare  "in  so  much  that"),  but  an 
Englishman  would  not,  I  think,  have  writ- 
ten it.  Nor  would  an  Englishman  be  likely 
to  write  "  that  sort  of  adventures." 

39 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

ip  Sep.  '08  Mr.  Conrad  still  maintains  his  preference 
for  indirect  narrative  through  the  mouths  of 
persons  who  witnessed  the  events  to  be 
described.  I  daresay  that  he  would  justify 
the  device  with  great  skill  and  convincing- 
ness. But  it  undoubtedly  gives  an  effect  of 
clumsiness.  The  first  story  in  the  volume, 
"  Caspar  Ruiz,"  is  a  striking  instance  of 
complicated  narrative  machinery.  This 
peculiarity  also  detracts  from  the  realistic 
authority  of  the  work.  For  by  the  time  you 
have  got  to  the  end  of  "  A  Set  of  Six  "  you 
have  met  a  whole  series  of  men  who  all  talk 
just  as  well  as  Mr.  Conrad  writes,  and  upon 
calm  reflection  the  existence  of  a  whole 
series  of  such  men  must  seem  to  you  very 
improbable.  The  best  pages  in  the  book 
are  those  devoted  to  the  ironical  contempla- 
tion of  a  young  lady  anarchist.  They  are 
tremendous. 


40 


THE  PROFESSORS 

The  death  of  Professor  Churton  Collins  26  Sep.  '08 
appears  to  have  been  attended  by  painful 
circumstances,  and  one  may  be  permitted 
to  regret  the  disappearance  from  the  literary 
arena  of  this  vigorous  pundit.  He  had  an 
agreeable  face,  with  pendant  hair  and  the 
chin  of  a  fighter.  His  industry  must  have 
been  terrific,  and  personally  I  can  forgive 
anything  to  him  who  consistently  and  vio- 
lently works.  He  had  also  acquired  much 
learning.  Indeed,  I  should  suppose  that  on 
the  subject  of  literature  he  was  the  most 
learned  man  in  Britain.  Unfortunately,  he 
was  quite  bereft  of  original  taste.  The  root 
of  the  matter  was  not  in  him.  The  frowning 
structure  of  his  vast  knowledge  overawed 
many  people,  but  it  never  overawed  an 
artist — unless  the  artist  was  excessively 
young  and  naive.  A  man  may  heap  up 
facts  and  facts  on  a  given  topic,  and  assort 
and  label  them,  and  have  the  trick  of  pro- 
ducing any  particular  fact  at  an  instant's 
notice,  and  yet,  despite  all  his  efforts  and 
honest  toil,  rest  hopelessly  among  the  pro- 
fane. Churton  Collins  was  such  a  man. 
He  had  no  artistic  feeling.  Apart  from  the 
display  of  learning,  which  is  always  pleasant 

41 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

26  Sep.  '08  to  the  man  of  letters,  his  essays  were  arid 
and  tedious.  I  never  heard  him  lecture, 
but  I  should  imagine  that  he  was  an  ideal 
University  Extension  lecturer.  I  do  not 
mean  this  to  be  in  the  least  complimentary 
to  him  as  a  critic.  His  book,  "  Illustra- 
tions of  Tennyson,"  was  an  entirely  sterile 
exercise,  proving  on  every  page  that  the 
author  had  no  real  perceptions  about  litera- 
ture. It  simply  made  creative  artists  laugh. 
They  knew.  His  more  recent  book  on 
modern  tendencies  displayed  in  an  acute 
degree  the  characteristic  inability  of  the 
typical  professor  to  toddle  alone  when 
released  from  the  leading-strings  of  tradition. 

I  fear  that  most  of  our  professors  are  in  a 
similar  fix.  There  is  Professor  George 
Saintsbury,  a  regular  Albert  Memorial  of 
learning.  In  my  pensive  moments  I  have 
sometimes  yearned  to  know  as  many  facts 
about  literature  as  Professor  Saintsbury 
knows,  though  he  did  once,  I  am  told,  state 
that  "  Wuthering  Heights "  was  written  by 
Charlotte.  (That  must  have  been  a  sadly 
shocking  day  for  Mr.  Clement  Shorter!)  I 
have  found  his  Liebig  "  History  of  French 
Literature "  very  useful ;  it  has  never 
failed  to  inform  me  what  I  ought  to  think 

42 


THE  PROFESSORS 

about  the  giants  of  the  past.  More  im-  26  Sep.  *o8 
portant,  Professor  Saintsbury's  critical  in- 
troductions to  the  whole  series  of  Dent's 
English  edition  of  Balzac  are  startlingly 
just.  Over  and  over  again  he  hits  the  nail 
on  the  head  and  spares  his  finger.  I  have 
never  understood  by  what  magic  he  came  to 
accomplish  these  prefaces.  For  the  root  of 
the  matter  is  no  more  in  Professor  Saints- 
bury  than  it  was  in  Churton  Collins.  He  has 
not  comprehended  what  he  was  talking  about. 
The  proof, — his  style  and  his  occasional 
pronouncements  on  questions  as  to  which 
he  has  been  quite  free  to  make  up  his  mind 
all  by  himself! 

I  remember  one  evening  discussing  the 
talents  of  a  certain  orchestral  conductor, 
who  also  played  the  violin.  I  was  talking 
to  a  member  of  his  orchestra,  a  very  genuine 
artist.  We  agreed  that  he  had  conducted 
badly;  but,  I  said  in  his  defence,  "Anyhow 
his  intentions  are  good.  You  must  admit 
that  he  has  a  feeling  for  music."  "  My  dear 
fellow,"  exclaimed  the  bandsman,  pettishly, 
"  no   one   who   had    any   feeling   for   music 

could  possibly  stand   the   d d   row   that 

that    chap    makes    on    the    fiddle."     I    was 
silenced.     I  recall  this  episode  in  connexion 

43 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

26  Sep.  '08  with    Professor    Saintsbury.     No    one    who 
had  any  feeling  for  literature  could  possibly 

put    down    the    style    that    Professor 

Saintsbury  commits.  His  pen  could  not  be 
brought  to  write  it.  Professor  Saintsbury 
may  be  as  loudly  positive  as  he  likes, — his 
style  is  always  quietly  whispering:  "  Don't 
listen."  As  to  his  modern  judgments — well 
for  their  own  sakes,  professors  of  literature 
ought  to  bind  themselves  by  oaths  never  to 
say  anything  about  any  author  who  was  not 
safely  dead  twenty  years  before  they  were 
born.  Such  an  ordinance  would  at  any  rate 
ensure  their  dignity. 

r 

Yet  another  example  is  Professor  Walter 
Raleigh.  Fifty  per  cent,  of  you  will  leap 
up  and  say  that  I  am  being  perverse.  But 
I  am  not.  It  has  been  demonstrated  to  me 
satisfactorily,  by  contact  with  Liverpool 
people,  that  Professor  Raleigh's  personal 
influence  at  that  university  in  certain  ways 
made  for  righteousness.  Nevertheless,  Pro- 
fessor Raleigh  has  himself  demonstrated  to 
me  that,  wherever  the  root  of  the  matter 
may  be,  it  is  not  in  him.  One  must  remem- 
ber that  he  is  young,  and  that  his  underived 
opinions  are  therefore  less  likely  to  clash 
with    the    authoritative    opinions    of    living 

44 


THE  PROFESSORS 

creative  artists  on  their  contemporaries  and  26  Sep.  '08 
predecessors  than  if  he  were  of  the  same 
generation  as  the  Collinses  and  the  Saints- 
burys.  But  wait  a  few  years.  Wait  until 
something  genuinely  new  and  original  comes 
along  and  you  will  see  what  you  will  see.  If 
he  wished  not  to  ruin  his  reputation  among 
artists,  among  people  who  really  create 
things,  he  ought  not  to  have  published  his 
.  books  on  "  Style  "  and  on  "  Shakespeare." 
He  ought  to  have  burnt  them.  For  they 
are  as  hollow  as  a  drum  and  as  unoriginal  as 
a  bride-cake:  nothing  but  vacuity  with  an 
icing  of  phrases.  I  am  brought  back  again 
to  the  anecdote  of  the  musician.  No  one  who 
had  the  least  glimmering  of  an  individual 
vision  of  what  style  truly  is  could  possibly 
have  tolerated  the  too  fearfully  ingenious 
mess  of  words  that  Professor  Raleigh  cou- 
rageously calls  a  book  on  "  Style."  The 
whole  thing  is  a  flagrant  contradiction  of 
every  notion  of  style.  It  may  not  be 
generally  known  (and  I  do  not  state  it  as  a 
truth)  that  Professor  Raleigh  is  a  distant 
connection  of  the  celebrated  family  of  Pains, 
pyrotechnicians.  I  would  begin  to  go  to 
the  Empire  again  if  I  could  see  on  the 
programme:  "  10.20.  Professor  Raleigh, 
in   his   unique   prestidigitatory   performance 

45 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

26  Sep.  '08  with  words."  Yes,  I  would  stroll  once 
more  into  the  hallowed  Promenade  to  see 
that  It  would  be  amusing.  But  it  would 
have  no  connexion  with  literature. 


46 


MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD'S 
HEROINES 

It  was  the  commercial  genius  of  Mr.  Hall  '3  Oct.  '08 
Caine  that  invented  the  idea  of  publishing 
important  novels  during  the  "  off "  season. 
Miss  Marie  Corelli,  by  a  sure  instinct, 
followed  suit.  And  now  all  sorts  of  stars, 
from  genuine  artists  to  mere  successful 
artisans,  take  care  to  publish  in  the  off 
season.  Thus  within  the  last  few  weeks  we 
have  had  novels  from  Eden  Phillpotts,  Miss 
Beatrice  Harraden,  Anthony  Hope,  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward,  and  Miss  Marie  Corelli. 
At  this  rate  the  autumn  will  soon  become 
the  slack  time;  August  will  burn  and  throb 
with  a  six-shilling  activity;  publishers'  clerks 
will  form  a  union;  and  the  Rt.  Hon.  W.  F. 
D.  Smith,  M.P.,  who  has  always  opposed  an 
eight  hours  day,  will  bring  in  a  Bill  for  an 
eight  months  year. 

That  a  considerable  social  importance 
still  attaches  to  the  publication  of  a  novel 
by  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  may  be  judged 
from  the  fact  that  the  Manchester  Guardian 
specially  reviewed  the  book  on  its  leader 
page.  This  strange  phenomenon  deserves 
to    be     studied,     because     the    Manchester 

47 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

5  Oct.  '08  Guardian's  reviewing  easily  surpasses  that 
of  any  other  daily  paper,  except,  possibly, 
the  Times  in  its  Literary  Supplement.  The 
Guardian  relies  on  mere,  sheer  intellectual 
power,  and  as  a  rule  it  does  not  respect 
persons.  Its  theatrical  critics,  for  example, 
take  joy  in  speaking  the  exact  truth — never 
whispered  in  London — concerning  the  man- 
darins of  the  stage.  Now  it  is  remarkable 
that  the  only  strictly  first-class  morning 
daily  in  these  isles  should  have  printed  the 
Guardian\  review  of  "  Diana  Mallory " 
.  (signed  "  B.  S.") ;  for  the  article  respected 
persons.  I  do  not  object  to  Mrs.  Humphry 
Ward  being  reviewed  with  splendid  prom- 
inence. I  am  quite  willing  to  concede  that 
a  new  book  from  her  constitutes  the  matter 
of  a  piece  of  news,  since  it  undoubtedly 
interests  a  large  number  of  respectable  and 
correct  persons.  A  novel  by  Miss  Marie 
Corelli,  however,  constitutes  the  matter  of 
a  greater  piece  of  news;  yet  I  have  seen 
no  review  of  "  Holy  Orders,"  even  in  a 
corner,  in  the  Guardian.  Surely  the  Guardian 
was  not  prevented  from  dealing  faithfully 
with  "Holy  Orders"  by  the  fact  that  it 
received  no  review  copy,  or  by  the  fact  that 
Miss  Corelli  desired  no  review.  Its  news 
department  in  general  is  conducted  without 

48 


MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD'S  HEROINES 

reference  to  the  desires  of  Miss  Marie  Corelli,  j  Oct.  '08 
and  it  does  not  usually  boggle  at  an  expendi- 
ture of  four-and-sixpence.  Why,  then,  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward  being  reviewed  specially,  is 
not  Miss  Marie  Corelli  reviewed  specially? 
If  the  answer  be  that  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's 
novels  are  better,  as  literature,  than  Miss 
Corelli's,  I  submit  that  the  answer  is 
insufficient,  and  lacking  in  Manchester 
sincerity. 

Let  me  duly  respect  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward. 
She  knows  her  business.  She  is  an  expert 
in  narrative.  She  can  dress  up  even  the 
silliest  incidents  of  sentimental  fiction — 
such  as  that  in  which  the  virgin  heroine,  in 
company  with  a  young  man,  misses  the  last 
train  home  (see  "  Helbeck  of  Bannisdale") 
— in  a  costume  of  plausibility.  She  is  a 
conscientious  worker.  She  does  not  make 
a  spectacle  of  herself  in  illustrated  interviews. 
Even  in  agitating  against  votes  for  women 
she  can  maintain  her  dignity.  (She  would 
be  an  ideal  President  of  the  Authors' 
Society.)  But,  then,  similar  remarks  apply, 
say,  to  Mr.  W.  E.  Norris.  Mr.  W.  E.  Norris 
is  as  accomplished  an  expert  as  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward.  He  is  in  possession  of  a  much 
better  style.     He  has  humour.     He  is  much 

49 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

3  Oct.  '08  more  true  to  life.  He  has  never  compro- 
mised the  dignity  of  his  vocation.  Never- 
theless, the  prospect  of  the  Guardian  review- 
ing Mr.  W.  E.  Norris  on  its  leader-page  is 
remote,  for  the  reason  that  though  he  pleases 
respectable  and  correct  persons,  he  does  not 
please  nearly  so  many  respectable  and  cor- 
rect persons  as  does  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward. 
If  anybody  has  a  right  to  the  leader-page  of 
our  unique  daily,  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  is 
that  body.  My  objection  to  the  phenome- 
non is  that  the  Guardian  falsified  its  item  of 
news.  It  deliberately  gave  the  impression 
that  a  serious  work  of  art  had  appeared  in 
"  Diana  Mallory."  It  ought  to  have  known 
better.  It  did  know  better.  If  our  unique 
daily  is  to  yield  to  the  snobbishness  which 
ranks  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  among  genuine 
artists,  where  among  dailies  are  we  to  look 
for  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock? 

Mrs.  Humphry  Ward's  novels  are  praise- 
worthy as  being  sincerely  and  skilfully  done, 
but  they  are  not  works  of  art.  They  are 
possibly  the  best  stuff  now  being  swallowed 
by  the  uneducated  public;  and  they  deal 
with  the  governing  classes;  and  when  you 
have  said  that  you  have  said  all.  Nothing 
truly  serious  can  happen  in  them.     It  is  all 

50 


MRS.  HUMPHRY  WARD'S  HEROINES 

make-believe.  No  real  danger  of  the  truth  3  Oct.  '08 
about  life!  .  .  .  I  should  think  not,  indeed! 
The  fearful  quandary  in  which  the  editor  of 
Harper's  found  himself  with  "  Jude  the 
Obscure"  was  a  lesson  to  all  Anglo-Saxon 
editors  for  ever  more!  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 
has  never  got  nearer  to  life  than,  for  instance, 
"Rita"  has  got — nor  so  near!  Gladstone,  a 
thoroughly  bad  judge  of  literature,  made 
her  reputation,  and  not  on  a  postcard,  either! 
Gladstone  had  no  sense  of  humour — at  any 
rate  when  he  ventured  into  literature.  Nor 
has  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward.  If  she  had 
she  would  not  concoct  those  excruciating 
heroines  of  hers.  She  probably  does  not 
know  that  her  heroines  are  capable  of  rousing 
temperaments  such  as  my  own  to  ecstasies 
of  homicidal  fury.  Moreover,  in  literature 
all  girls  named  Diana  are  insupportable. 
Look  at  Diana  Vernon,  beloved  of  Mr. 
Andrew  Lang,  I  believe!  What  a  creature! 
Imagine  living  with  her!  You  can't!  Look 
at  Diana  of  the  Crossways.  Why  did  Diana 
of  the  Crossways  marry?  Nobody  can  say — 
unless  the  answer  is  that  she  was  a  ridiculous 
ninny.  Would  Anne  Elliot  have  made  such 
an  inexplicable  fool  of  herself?  Why  does 
iDiana  Mallory  "  go  to "  her  preposterous 
Radical   ex-M.P.?     Simply   because   she   is 

51 


'  BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

3  Oct.  '08  tiresomely  absurd.  Oh,  those  men  with 
strong  chins  and  irreproachable  wristbands! 
Oh,  those  cultured  conversations!  Oh,  those 
pure  English  maids!  That  skittishnessi 
That  impulsiveness!  That  noxious  win- 
someness! 

I  have  invented  a  destiny  for  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward's  heroines.  It  is  terrible,  and 
just.  They  ought  to  be  caught,  with  their 
lawful  male  protectors,  in  the  siege  of  a 
great  city  by  a  foreign  army.  Their  lawful 
male  protectors  ought,  before  sallying  forth 
on  a  forlorn  hope,  to  provide  them  with  a 
revolver  as  a  last  refuge  from  a  brutal  and 
licentious  soldiery.  And  when  things  come 
to  a  crisis,  in  order  to  be  concluded  in  our 
next,  the  revolvers  ought  to  prove  to  be 
unloaded.  I  admit  that  this  invention  of 
mine  is  odious,  and  quite  un-English,  and 
such  as  would  never  occur  to  a  right-minded 
subscriber  to  Mudie's.  But  it  illustrates  the 
mood  caused  in  me  by  witnessing  the  antics 
of  those  harrowing  dolls. 


52 


W.  W.  JACOBS  AND 
ARISTOPHANES 

I  HAVE  been  reading  a  new  novel  by  Mr.  24  Oct.  *o8 
W.  W.  Jacobs — "  Salthaven "  (Methuen. 
6s.).  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  read  a  book  of 
his.  Ministries  have  fallen  since  then,  and 
probably  Mr.  Jacobs'  prices  have  risen — 
indeed,  much  has  happened — but  the  talent 
of  the  author  of  "  Many  Cargoes "  remains 
steadfast  w^here  it  did.  "  Salthaven  "  is  a 
funny  book.  Captain  Trimblett,  to  excuse 
the  lateness  of  a  friend  for  tea,  says  to  the 
landlady:  "  He  saw  a  man  nearly  run  over!  " 
and  the  landlady  replies:  "Yes,  but  how 
long  would  that  take  him?"  If  you  ask 
me  whether  I  consider  this  humorous,  I 
reply  that  I  do.  I  also  consider  humorous 
this  conversational  description  of  an  exem- 
plary boy  who  took  to  "  Sandford  and 
Merton "  "as  a  duck  takes  to  water": 
"  By  modelling  his  life  on  its  teaching " 
(says  young  Vyner)  "  he  won  a  silver  medal 
for  never  missing  an  attendance  at  school. 
Even  the  measles  failed  to  stop  him.  Day 
by  day,  a  little  more  flushed  than  usual, 
perhaps,  he  sat  in  his  place  until  the  whole 
school  was  down  with  it,  and  had  to  be 
closed  in   consequence.     Then  and   not  till 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

24  Oct.  '08  then  did  he  feel  that  he  had  saved  the  situa- 
tion," I  care  nothing  for  the  outrageous 
improbability  of  any  youthful  son  of  a 
shipowner  being  able  to  talk  in  the  brilliant 
fashion  in  which  Mr.  Jacobs  makes  Vyner 
talk.  Success  excuses  it.  "  Salthaven "  is 
bathed  in  humour. 

At  the  same  time  I  am  dissatisfied  with 
"  Salthaven."  And  I  do  not  find  it  easy  to 
explain  why.  I  suppose  the  real  reason 
is  that  it  discloses  no  signs  of  any  develop- 
ment whatever  on  the  part  of  the  author. 
Worse,  it  discloses  no  signs  of  intellectual 
curiosity  on  the  part  of  the  author.  Mr. 
Jacobs  seems  to  live  apart  from  the  move- 
ment of  his  age.  Nothing,  except  the  par- 
ticular type  of  humanity  and  environment 
in  which  he  specializes,  seems  to  interest 
him.  There  is  no  hint  of  a  general  idea  in 
his  work.  By  some  of  his  fellow-artists  he 
is  immensely  admired.  I  have  heard  him 
called,  seriously,  the  greatest  humourist, 
since  Aristophanes.  I  admire  him  myself, 
and  I  will  not  swear  that  he  is  not  the 
greatest  humorist  since  Aristophanes.  But 
I  wil  swear  that  no  genuine  humourist  ever 
resembled  Aristophanes  less  than  Mr.  Jacobs 
does.     Aristophanes  was  passionately  inter- 

54 


W.  W.  JACOBS  AND  ARISTOPHANES 

ested  in  everything.  He  would  leave  noth-  24.  Oct.  '08 
ing  alone.  Whereas  Mr.  Jacobs  will  leave 
nearly  everything  alone.  Kipling's  general 
ideas  are  excessively  crude,  but  one  does  feel 
in  reading  him  that  his  curiosity  is  bound- 
less, even  though  his  taste  in  literature 
must  infallibly  be  bad.  "  Q."  is  not  to  be 
compared  in  creative  power  with  either  of 
these  two  men,  but  one  does  feel  in  reading 
him  that  he  is  interested  in  other  manifes- 
tations of  his  own  art,  that  he  cares  for 
literature.  Impossible  to  gather  from  Mr. 
Jacobs'  work  that  he  cares  for  anything 
serious  at  all;  impossible  to  differentiate 
his  intellectual  outlook  from  that  of  an 
average  reader  of  the  Strand  Magazine!  I 
do  not  bring  this  as  a  reproach  against  Mr. 
Jacobs,  whose  personality  it  would  be 
difficult  not  to  esteem  and  to  like.  He 
cannot  alter  himself.  I  merely  record  the 
phenomenon  as  worthy  of  notice. 

Mr.  Jacobs  is  not  alone.  Among  our  very 
successful  novelists,  there  are  many  like  him 
in  what  I  will  roundly  term  intellectual 
sluggishness,  though  there  is,  perhaps,  none 
with  quite  his  talent.  Have  these  men 
entered  into  a  secret  compact  not  to  touch 
a  problem  even  with  a  pair  of  tongs?     Or 

55 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

24  Oct.  '08  are  they  afraid  of  being  confused  with  Hall 
Caine,  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  and  Miss 
Marie  Corelli,  who  anyhow  have  the  merit 
of  being  interested  in  the  wide  aspects  of 
their  age?  I  do  not  know.  But  I  think  we 
might  expect  a  little  more  general  activity 
from  some  of  our  authors  who  lie  tranquil, 
steeped  in  success  as  lizards  in  sunshine.  I 
speak  delicately,  for  I  am  on  delicate  ground. 
I  do,  however,  speak  as  a  creative  artist, 
and  not  as  a  critic.  Occasionally  my  corre- 
spondents upbraid  me  for  not  writing  like  a 
critic.  I  have  never  pretended  to  look  at 
things  from  any  other  standpoint  than  that 
of  a  creative  artist. 


56 


KENNETH  GRAHAME 

It  is  a  long  time  since  I  read  a  new  book  ^4  Oct.  '08 
by  Mr.  Kenneth  Grahame,  but  the  fault  is  his 
rather  than  mine.  I  suppose  that  I  was  not 
the  only  reader  who  opened  "  The  Wind  in 
the  Willows"  (Methuen.  6s.)  with  an  unu- 
sual and  apprehensive  curiosity.  Would  it 
disappoint?  For  really,  you  know,  to  live  up 
to  "  The  Golden  Age  "  and  "  Pagan  Papers  " 
could  not  be  an  easy  task — and  after  so 
many  years  of  silence!  It  is  ten  years,  if 
I  mistake  not,  since  Mr.  Kenneth  Grahame 
put  his  name  to  anything  more  important 
than  the  official  correspondence  of  the  Bank 
of  England.  Well,  "The  Wind  in  the 
Willows "  does  not  disappoint.  Here,  in- 
deed, we  have  the  work  of  a  man  who  is 
obviously  interested  in  letters  and  in  life,  the 
work  of  a  fastidious  and  yet  a  very  robust 
artist.  But  the  book  is  fairly  certain  to  be 
misunderstood  of  the  people.  The  pub- 
lishers' own  announcement  describes  it  as 
"  perhaps  chiefly  for  youth,"  a  description 
with  which  I  disagree.  The  obtuse  are 
capable  of  seeing  in  it  nothing  save  a  bread- 
and-butter  imitation  of  "  The  Jungle  Book." 
The  woodland  and  sedgy  lore  in  it  is  dis- 
creet   and    attractive.     Names    of    animals 

S7 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

24  Oct.  '08  abound  in  it.  But  it  is  nevertheless  a  book 
of  humanity.  The  author  may  call  his  chief 
characters  the  Rat,  the  Mole,  the  Toad, — 
they  are  human  beings,  and  they  are  meant 
to  be  nothing  but  human  beings.  Were 
it  otherwise,  the  spectacle  of  a  toad  going 
through  the  motor-car  craft  would  be  merely 
incomprehensible  and  exasperating.  The 
superficial  scheme  of  the  story  is  so  child- 
ishly naive,  or  so  daringly  naive,  that  only 
a  genius  could  have  preserved  it  from  the 
ridiculous.  The  book  is  an  urbane  exercise 
in  irony  at  the  expense  of  the  English  char- 
acter and  of  mankind.  It  is  entirely  suc- 
cessful. Whatever  may  happen  to  it  in  the 
esteem  of  mandarins  and  professors,  it  will 
beyond  doubt  be  considered  by  authentic 
experts  as  a  work  highly  distinguished, 
original  and  amusing — and  no  more  to  be 
comprehended  by  youth  than  "  The  Golden 
Age  "  was  to  be  comprehended  by  youth. 


58 


ANATOLE  FRANCE 

I  OBTAINED  the  new  book  of  Anatole  ^p  Oct.  '08 
France,  "  L'lle  des  Pingouins,"  the  day 
after  publication,  and  my  copy  was  marked 
"  eighteenth  edition."  But  in  French  pub- 
lishing the  word  "  edition  "  may  mean  any- 
thing. There  is  a  sort  of  legend  among  the 
simple  that  it  means  five  hundred  copies. 
The  better  informed,  however,  are  aware 
that  it  often  means  less.  Thus,  in  the  case 
of  the  later  novels  of  Emile  Zola,  an  edition 
meant  two  hundred  copies.  This  was  chiefly 
to  save  the  self-love  of  his  publishers,  who 
did  not  care  to  admit  that  the  idol  of  a 
capricious  populace  had  fallen  off  its  pedestal. 
The  vast  fiction  was  created  that  Zola  sold 
as  well  as  ever!  One  Paris  firm,  the  "  Societe 
du  Mercure  de  France,"  which  in  the  domain 
of  pure  letters  has  probably  issued  in  the 
last  dozen  years  more  good  books  than  any 
other  house  in  the  world,  has,  with  astound- 
ing courage,  adopted  the  practice  of  number- 
ing every  copy  of  a  book.  Thus  my  copy  of 
its  "  L'Esprit  de  Barbey  d'Aurevilly"  (an 
exceedingly  diverting  volume)  is  numbered 
1,424.  I  prefer  this  to  advertisements  of 
"  second  large  edition,"  etc.  One  knows 
where  one  is.    But  I  fear  the  example  of  the 

59 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

29  Oct.  '08  Mercure  de  France  is  not  likely  to  be  honestly 
imitated. 

If  Anatole  France's  "  editions "  consist  of 
five  hundred  copies  I  am  glad.  For  an 
immediate  sale  of  nine  thousand  copies  is 
fairly  remarkable  when  the  article  sold 
consists  of  nothing  more  solid  than  irony. 
But  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  they  do  not 
consist  of  five  hundred  copies.  There  is  less 
enthusiasm — that  is  to  say,  less  genuine 
enthusiasm — for  Anatole  France  than  there 
used  to  be.  The  majority,  of  course,  could 
never  appreciate  him,  and  would  only  buy 
him  under  the  threat  of  being  disdained  by 
the  minority,  whose  sole  weapon  is  scorn. 
And  the  minority  has  been  seriously  thinking 
about  Anatole  France,  and  coming  to  the 
conclusion  that,  though  a  genius,  he  is  not 
the  only  genius  that  ever  existed.  (Stendhal 
is  at  present  the  god  of  the  minority  of  the 
race  which  the  Westminister  Gazette  will 
persist  in  referring  to  as  "  our  French 
neighbours."  In  some  circles  it  is  now  a 
lapse  from  taste  to  read  anything  but 
Stendhal.)  Anatole  France's  last  two  works 
of  imagination  did  not  brilliantly  impose 
themselves  on  the  intellect  of  his  country. 
"  L'Histoire   Comique "  showed   once  again 

60 


ANATOLE  FRANCE 

his  complete  inability  to  construct  a  novel,  2Q  Oct.  *o8 
and  it  appeared  to  be  irresponsibly  extrava- 
gant in  its  sensuality.  And  "  Sur  La 
Pierre  Blanche  "  was  inferior  Wells.  The 
minority  has  waited  a  long  time  for  some- 
thing large,  original,  and  arresting;  and  it 
has  not  had  it.  The  author  was  under  no 
compulsion  to  write  his  history  of  Joan  of 
Arc,  which  bears  little  relation  to  his  epoch, 
and  which  one  is  justified  in  dismissing  as 
the  elegant  pastime  of  a  savant.  If  in  Anatole 
France  the  savant  has  not  lately  flourished 
to  the  detriment  of  the  fighting  philosopher, 
why  should  he  have  spent  years  on  the 
"  Joan  of  Arc "  at  a  period  when  Jaures 
urgently  needed  intellectual  aid  against  the 
doctrinairism  of  the  International  Congress? 
Jaures  was  beaten,  and  he  yielded,  with  the 
result  that  Clemenceau,  a  man  far  too  in- 
telligent not  to  be  a  practical  Socialist  at 
heart,  has  become  semi-reactionary  for  want 
of  support.  This  has  not  much  to  do  with 
literature.  Neither  has  the  history  of  Joan 
of  Arc.  To  return  to  literature,  it  is 
indubitable  that  Anatole  France  is  slightly 
acquiring  the  reputation  of  a  dilettante. 

<;• 

In  "  L'lle  des  Pingouins "  he  returns,  in  a 
parable,  to  his  epoch.     For  this  book  is  the 

6i 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

-?p  Oct.  '08  history  of  France  "  from  the  earliest  time 
to  the  present  day,"  seen  in  the  mirror  of 
the  writer's  ironical  temperament.  It  is 
very  good.  It  is  inimitable.  It  is  sheer 
genius.  One  cannot  reasonably  find  fault 
with  its  amazing  finesse.  But  then  one  is 
so  damnably  unreasonable!  One  had  ex- 
pected— one  does  not  know  what  one  had 
expected — but  anyhow  something  with  a 
more  soaring  flight,  something  more  passion- 
ate, something  a  little  less  gently  "  tired " 
in  its  attitude  towards  the  criminal  frailties 
of  mankind!  When  an  A.  B.  Walkley 
yawns  in  print  before  the  spectacle  of  the 
modern  English  theatre,  it  really  doesn't 
matter.  But  when  an  Anatole  France 
grows  wearily  indulgent  before  the  spectacle 
of  life,  one  is  inclined  to  wake  him  by 
throwing  "  Leaves  of  Grass "  or  "  Ecce 
Homo  "  (Nietzsche's)  at  his  head.  For  my 
A  part,   I   am   ready   to   hazard   that  what   is 

wrong  with  Anatole  France  is  just  spiritual 
anaemia.  Yet  only  a  little  while,  and  he  was 
as  great  a  force  for  pushing  forward  as 
H.  G.  Wells  himself! 


62 


INTIMATIONS  OF 
IMMORTALITY 

The  judgments  of  men  who  have  the  right  3  Dec.  '08 
to  judge  are  not  as  other  judgments. 
According  to  Mr.  Yeats  "  the  finest  comedian 
of  his  kind  on  the  English-speaking  stage  " 
is  not  Mr.  George  Alexander,  but  Mr. 
William  Fayl  And  who,  outside  Dublin,  has 
ever  heard  of  Mr.  J.  M.  Synge,  author  of 
"  The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World "  ? 
For  myself,  I  have  heard  of  him,  and  that  is 
all.  Mr.  Yeats  calls  him  "  a  unique  man," 
and  puts  him  above  all  other  Irish  creative 
artists  in  prose.  And  very  probably  Mr. 
Yeats  is  correct.  For  the  difference  between 
what  informed  people  truly  think  about 
reputations,  and  what  is  printed  about 
reputations  by  mandarins  in  popular  papers, 
is  apt  to  be  startling.  The  other  day  I  had  a 
terrific  pow-wow  with  one  of  the  most 
accomplished  writers  now  living;  it  occurred 
in  the  middle  of  a  wood.  We  presently 
arrived  at  this  point:  He  asked  impatiently: 
"  Well,  who  is  there  who  can  write  tip-top 
poetry  to-day? "  I  tried  to  dig  out  my 
genuine  opinions.  Really,  it  is  not  so  easy 
to  put  one's  finger  on  a  high-class  poet.  I 
gave    the    names    of    Robert    Bridges    and 

63 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

3  Dec.  '08  W.  B.  Yeats.  He  wouldn't  admit  Mr. 
Yeats'  tip-topness.  "  What  about  T.  W.  H. 
Crosland?  "  he  inquired.  At  first,  with  the 
immeasurable  and  vulgar  tedium  of  Mr. 
Crosland's  popular  books  in  my  memory,  I 
thought  he  was  joking.  But  he  was  not. 
He  was  convinced  that  an  early  book  by  the 
slanger  of  suburbs  contained  as  fine  poetry 
as  has  been  written  in  these  days.  I  was 
formally  bound  over  to  peruse  the  volume. 
"And  Alfred  Douglas?"  he  said  further. 
(Not  that  he  had  shares  or  interest  in  the 
Academy/)  Of  course,  I  had  to  admit  that 
Lord  Alfred  Douglas,  before  he  began  to  cut 
capers  in  the  hinterland  of  Fleet  Street,  had 
been  a  poet.  I  have  an  early  volume  of  his 
that,  to  speak  mildly,  I  cherish.  I  should 
surmise  that  scarcely  one  person  in  a  million 
has  the  least  idea  of  the  identity  of  the 
artists  by  which  the  end  of  the  twentieth 
century  will  remember  the  beginning.  The 
vital  facts  of  to-day's  literature  always  lie 
buried  beneath  chatter  of  large  editions  and 
immense  popularities.  I  wouldn't  mind  so 
much,  were  it  not  incontestable  that  at  the 
end  of  the  century  I  shall  be  dead. 


64 


MALLARME,  BAZIN,  SWINBURNE 

The  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  of  France,  17  Dec.  '08 
M.  Rene  Bazin,  has  visited  these  shores,  and 
has  been  interviewed.  In  comparing  him 
to  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  I  am  unfair  to 
the  lady  in  one  sense  and  too  generous  in 
another.  M.  Bazin  writes  perhaps  slightly 
better  than  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  but  not 
much.  Per  contra,  he  is  a  finished  master 
of  the  art  of  self-advertisement,  whereas  the 
public  demeanour  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 
is  entirely  beyond  reproach.  M.  Bazin  did 
not  get  through  his  interview  without 
giving  some  precise  statistical  information 
as  to  the  vast  sale  of  his  novels.  I  suppose 
that  M.  Bazin,  Academician  and  apostle 
of  literary  correctitude,  is  just  the  type  of 
official  mediocrity  that  the  Alliance  Fran- 
gaise  was  fated  to  invite  to  London  as  repre- 
sentative of  French  letters.  My  only  objec- 
tion to  the  activities  of  M.  Bazin  is  that,  not 
content  with  a  golden  popularity,  he  cannot 
refrain  from  sneering  at  genuine  artists. 
Thus,  to  the  interviewer,  he  referred  to 
Stephane  Mallarme  as  a  "  fumiste."  No 
English  word  will  render  exactly  this 
French  slang;  it  may  be  roughly  translated 

6s 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

17  Dec.  '08  as  a  practical  joker  with  a  trace  of  fraud. 
There  may  be,  and  there  are,  two  opinions  as 
to  the  permanent  value  of  Mallarme's  work, 
but  there  cannot  be  two  informed  and  honest 
opinions  as  to  his  profound  sincerity.  It  is 
indubitable  that  he  had  one  aim — to  produce 
the  finest  literature  of  which  he  was  capable, 
and  that  to  this  aim  he  sacrificed  everything 
else  in  his  career.  A  charming  spectacle, 
this  nuncio  of  mediocrity  and  of  the 
Academie  Frangaise  coming  to  London  to 
assert  that  a  distinguished  writer  like 
Mallarme  was  a  "  fumiste "  !  If  anyone 
wishes  to  know  what  is  thought  of  Mallarme 
by  the  younger  French  school,  let  him  read 
the  Mallarme  chapter  in  Andre  Gide's 
**  Pretextes."  In  this  very  able  book  will 
be  found  also  some  wonderful  reminiscences 
of  Oscar  Wilde. 

Speaking  of  the  respect  which  ought  to  be 
accorded  to  a  distinguished  artist,  there  is  an 
excellent  example  of  propriety  in  Dr.  Levin 
Schiicking's  review  of  Swinburne's  "  The 
Age  of  Shakespeare,"  which  brings  to  a  close 
the  extraordinarily  fine  first  number  of  the 
English  Review.  Dr.  Schiicking  shows  that 
he  is  quite  aware  of  the  defects  of  manner 
which  mark  the  book,  but  his  own  manner  is 

66 


MALLARMfi,  BAZIN,  SWINBURNE 

the    summit    of    courteous    deference    such  ij  Dec,  *o8 

as  is  due  to  one  of  the  chief  ornaments  of 

English  literature,  and  to  a  very  old  man. 

"A   Man   of   Kent"    {British   Weekly),    in 

commenting     on     the     article,     regrets     its 

timidity,    and    refers    to    Swinburne    as    the 

"  howling  dervish  "  of  criticism.    This  is  the 

kind  of  lapse  from  decorum  which  causes  the 

judicious  not  to  grieve  but  to  shrug  their 

shoulders.      Probably   "A   Man    of    Kent" 

would  wish  to  withdraw  it.     I  trust  he  is 

aware  that  "  The  Age  of  Shakespeare "   is 

packed  full  of  criticism  whose  insight  and 

sensitiveness  no  other  English  critic  could 

equal. 


67 


THE  RUINED  SEASON 

24  Dec.  '08  In  a  recent  number  of  the  Athenceum 
appeared  a  letter  from  Mr.  E.  H.  Cooper, 
novelist  and  writer  for  children,  protesting 
against  the  publication  of  the  Queen's  Gift- 
Book  and  the  royally-commanded  cheap 
edition  of  Queen  Victoria's  Letters  during 
the  autumn  season,  and  requesting  their 
Majesties  to  forbear  next  year  from  injuring 
the  general  business  of  books  as  they  have 
injured  it  this  year.  That  some  semi- 
official importance  is  attached  to  Mr. 
Cooper's  statements  is  obvious  from  the  fact 
that  the  AtheinEum  (which  is  the  organ  of 
the  trade  as  well  as  of  learning)  thought 
well  to  print  his  letter.  But  Mr.  Cooper 
undoubtedly  exaggerates.  He  states  that 
the  two  books  in  question  "  have  ruined  the 
present  publishing  season  rather  more  eflPec- 
tively  than  a  Pan-European  war  could  have 
■  done."  Briefly,  this  is  ridiculous.  He  says 
further:  "Men  and  women  who  could 
trust  to  a  sale  of  5000  or  6000  copies  of  a 
novel,  equally  with  authors  who  can  com- 
mand much  larger  sales,  find  that  this  year 
the  sale  of  their  annual  novel  has  reached 
a  tenth  part  of  the  usual  figures."  This  also 
is    ridiculous.     The    general   view    is    that, 

68 


THE  RUINED  SEASON 

while  the  season  has  been  scarcely  up  to  the  24  Dec.  '68 
average  for  fiction,  it  has  not  been  below  the 
average  on  the  whole.  But  Mr.  Cooper  is 
nothing  if  not  sweeping.  A  few  days  later 
he  wrote  to  the  Westminster  Gazette  about 
the  House  of  Lords,  and  said:  "I  am  open 
to  wager  a  considerable  sum  that  if  the  Gov- 
ernment fights  a  general  election  next  year 
they  will  win  back  all  their  lost  by-elections 
and  get  an  increased  majority  besides."  Such 
rashness  proves  that  grammar  is  not  Mr. 
Cooper's  only  weak  point. 

It  is  a  pity  that  Mr.  Cooper's  protest  was 
not  made  with  more  moderation,  for  it  was 
a  protest  worth  making.  The  books  of  the 
two  Queens  have  not  ruined  the  season,  nor 
have  they  reduced  the  sales  of  popular 
novels  by  90  per  cent.;  but  they  have 
upset  trade  quite  unnecessarily.  The  issue 
of  "  Queen  Victoria's  Letters "  at  six  shill- 
ings was  a  worthy  idea,  but  its  execution  was 
thoughtlessly  timed.  The  volumes  would 
have  sold  almost  equally  well  at  another 
period  of  the  year.  As  for  "  Queen  Alex- 
andra's Gift-Book,"  I  personally  have  an 
objection  to  the  sale  of  books  for  charity, 
just  as  I  have  an  objection  to  all  indirect 
taxation  and  to  the  paying  of  rates  out  of 

69 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

24  Dec.  '08  gas  profits.  In  such  enterprises  as  the  vast, 
frenzied  pushing  and  booming  of  the  ''  Gift- 
Book,"  the  people  who  really  pay  are  just 
the  people  who  get  no  credit  whatever. 
The  public  who  buy  get  rich  value  for  their 
outlay;  the  chief  pushers  and  boomsters 
get  an  advertisement  after  their  own  hearts; 
and  the  folk  who  genuinely  but  unwillingly 
contribute,  without  any  return  of  any  kind, 
are  authors  whose  market  is  disturbed  and 
booksellers  who,  partly  intimidated  and 
partly  from  good  nature,  handle  the  favoured 
book  on  wholesale  terms  barely  profitable. 
I  will  have  none  of  Mr.  Cooper's  90  per 
cent.;  but  I  daresay  that  I  have  lost  at  the 
very  least  £10  owing  to  the  "  Gift-Book." 
That  is  to  say,  I  have  furnished  £10  to  the 
Unemployed  Fund.  I  share  Mr.  Cooper's 
resentment.  I  do  not  want  to  give  £10  to 
any  fund  whatever,  and  to  force  me  to  pay  it 
to  the  Unemployed  Fund,  of  all  funds,  is  to 
insult  my  most  sacred  convictions.  £10 
wants  earning.  And  the  fact  that  £10  wants 
earning  should  be  brought  to  the  attention 
of  Windsor  and  Greeba  Castles. 

Still,  I  am  not  depressed  about  the  general 
cause  of  serious  literature.  Serious  litera- 
ture is  kept  alive  by  a  few  authors  who,  not 

70 


THE  RUINED  SEASON 

owning  motor-cars  nor  entertaining  parties  24  Dec.  *o8 
to  dinner  at  the  Carlton,  find  it  possible  and 
agreeable  to  maintain  life  and  decency  on 
the  money  paid  down  by  very  small  bands  of 
truly  bookish  readers.  And  these  readers 
are  not  likely  to  deprive  themselves  com- 
pletely of  literature  for  ever  in  order  to 
possess  a  collection  of  royal  photographs. 
The  injury  to  serious  literature  is  slight  and 
purely  temporary. 

A  melancholy  Christmas,  it  seems!  51  Dec.  *o8 
According  to  "  a  well-known  member  of  the 
trade,"  the  business  is  once  again — the 
second  time  this  year — about  to  crumble 
into  ruins.  This  well-known  member  of  the 
trade,  who  discreetly  refrains  from  signing 
his  name,  writes  to  the  AtheinBum  in  answer 
to  Mr.  E.  H.  Cooper's  letter  about  the 
disastrous  influence  of  royal  books  on  the 
publishing  season.  According  to  him,  Mr. 
Cooper  is  all  wrong.  The  end  of  profitable 
publishing  is  being  brought  about, .  not  by 
their  Majesties,  but  once  more  by  the 
authors  and  their  agents.  It  appears  that 
too  many  books  are  published.  Authors 
and  their  agents  have  evidently  some 
miraculous  method  of  forcing  publishers 
to  publish  books  which  they  do  not  want  to 

71 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

$1  Dec.  '08  publish.  I  am  not  a  member  of  the  trade, 
but  I  should  have  thought  that  few  things 
could  be  easier  than  not  to  publish  a  book. 
Presumably  the  agent  stands  over  the 
publisher  with  a  contract  in  one  hand  and 
a  revolver  in  the  other,  and,  after  a  glance 
at  the  revolver,  the  publisher  signs  without 
glancing  at  the  contract.  Secondly,  it 
appears,  authors  and  their  agents  habitually 
compel  the  publisher  to  pay  too  much,  so 
that  he  habitually  publishes  at  a  loss. 
(Novels,  that  is.)  I  should  love  to  know 
how  the  trick  is  done,  but  a  well-known 
member  of  the  trade  does  not  go  into  details. 
He  merely  states  the  broad  fact.  Thirdly, 
the  sevenpenny  reprint  of  the  popular  novel 
is  ruining  the  already-ruined  six-shilling 
novel.  It  is  comforting  to  perceive  that  this 
wickedness  on  the  part  of  the  sevenpenny 
reprint  cannot  indefinitely  continue.  For 
when  there  are  no  six-shilling  novels  to 
reprint,  obviously  there  can  be  no  seven- 
penny  reprints  of  them.  There  is  justice  in 
England  yet;  but  a  well-known  member  of 
the  trade  has  not  noticed  that  the  seven- 
penny  novel,  in  killing  its  own  father,  must 
kill  itself.  At  any  rate  he  does  not  refer 
to  the  point. 

72 


THE  RUINED  SEASON 

I  have  been  young,  and  now  am  nearly  old.  31  Dec.  '08 
Silvered  is  the  once-brown  hair.  Dim  is  the 
eye  that  on  a  time  could  decipher  minion 
type  by  moonlight.  But  never  have  I  seen 
the  publisher  without  a  fur  coat  in  winter 
nor  his  seed  begging  bread.  Nor  do  I 
expect  to  see  such  sights.  Yet  I  have  seen 
an  author  begging  bread,  and  instead  of 
bread,  I  gave  him  a  railway-ticket.  Authors 
have  always  been  in  the  wrong,  and  they 
always  will  be:  grasping,  unscrupulous, 
mercernary  creatures  that  they  are!  Some 
of  them  haven't  even  the  wit  to  keep  their 
books  from  being  burnt  at  the  stake  by  the 
executioners  of  the  National  Vigilance 
Association.  I  wonder  that  publishers  don't 
dispense  with  them  altogether,  and  carry 
on  unaided  the  great  tradition  of  English 
literature.  Anyhow,  publishers  have  had 
my  warm  sympathy  this  Christmas  time. 
When  I  survey  myself,  as  an  example,  lapped 
in  luxury  and  clinking  multitudinous  gold 
coins  extorted  from  publishers  by  my  hypno- 
tizing rascal  of  an  agent;  and  when  I  think 
of  the  publishers,  endeavoring  in  their  fur 
coats  to  keep  warm  in  fireless  rooms  and  pick- 
ing turkey  limbs  while  filling  up  bankruptcy 
forms — I  blush.  Or  I  should  blush,  were  not 
authors  notoriously  incapable  of  that  action. 

73 


1909 


"ECCE  HOMO" 

The  people  who  live  in  the  eye  of  the  7  Jan.  '09 
public  have  been  asked,  as  usual,  to  state 
what  books  during  the  past  year  have  most 
interested  them,  and  they  have  stated.  This 
year  I  think  the  lists  are  less  funny  than 
usual.  But  some  items  give  joy.  Thus  the 
Bishop  of  London  has  read  Mr.  A.  E.  W. 
Mason's  "  The  Broken  Road  "  with  interest 
and  pleasure.  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison,  along 
with  two  historical  works,  has  read  "  Diana 
Mallory  "  with  interest  and  pleasure.  What 
an  unearthly  light  such  confessions  throw 
upon  the  mentalities  from  which  they 
emanate!  As  regards  the  Bishop  of  London 
I  should  not  have  been  surprised  to  hear  that 
he  had  read  "  Holy  Orders "  with  interest 
and  pleasure.  But  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison, 
one  had  naively  imagined,  possessed  some 
rudimentary  knowledge  of  the  art  which  he 
has  practised. 

This  confessing  malady  is  infectious,  if  not 
contagious.  I  suppose  that  few  persons 
can  resist  the  microbe.  I  cannot.  I  feel 
compelled  to  announce  to  all  whom  it  may 
not  concern  the  books  of  the  year  which  (at 
the  moment  of  writing)  seeAi  to  have  most 
interested    me — apart   from    my   own,    bien 

77 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS  . 

7  Jan.  'op  entendu :  H.  G.  Wells's  "  New  Worlds  for 
Old."  If  it  is  not  in  its  fiftieth  thousand 
the  intelligent  masses  ought  to  go  into  a 
month's  sackcloth.  "Nature  Poems,"  by- 
William  H.  Davies.  This  slim  volume  is 
quite  indubitably  wondrous.  I  won't  say 
that  it  contains  some  of  the  most  lyrical 
lyrics  in  English,  but  I  will  say  that  there 
are  lyrics  in  it  as  good  as  have  been  produced 
by  anybody  at  all  in  the  present  century. 
"A  Poor  Man's  House,"  by  Stephen  Rey- 
nolds. Young  Mr.  Reynolds  has  already 
been  fully  accepted  by  the  aforesaid  intelli- 
gent masses,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  is 
tolerably  well  satisfied  with  1908.  Nietzsche's 
"  Ecce  Homo."  When  this  book  gets  trans- 
lated into  English  (I  have  been  reading  it  in 
Henri  Albert's  French  translation)  it  will 
assuredly  be  laughed  at.  I  would  hazard 
that  it  is  the  most  conceited  book  ever 
written.  Take  our  four  leading  actor- 
managers;  extract  from  them  all  their  con- 
ceit; multiply  that  conceit  by  the  self- 
satisfaction  of  Mr.  F.  E.  Smith,  M.P.  when 
he  has  made  a  joke;  and  raise  the  result 
to  the  Kaiser-power,  and  you  will  have 
something  less  than  the  cube-root  of  Nietz- 
sche's conceit  in  this  the  last  book  he  wrote. 
J      But  it  is  a  great  book,  full  of  great  things. 

78 


HENRY  OSPOVAT 

The  death  of  that  distinguished  draughts-  ^4  Ja^-  '09 
man  and  painter,  Henry  Ospovat,  who  was 
among  the  few  who  can  illustrate  a  serious 
author  without  insulting  him,  ought  not  to 
pass  unnoticed.  Because  an  exhibition  of 
his  caricatures  made  a  considerable  stir  last 
year  it  was  generally  understood  that  he  was 
destined  exclusively  for  caricature.  But  he 
was  a  man  who  could  do  several  things  very 
well  indeed,  and  caricature  was  only  one  of 
these  things.  In  Paris  he  would  certainly 
have  made  a  name  and  a  fortune  as  a  carica- 
turist. They  have  more  liberty  there. 
Witness  Rouveyre's  admirable  and  appalling 
sketch  of  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  the  current 
"  Mercure  de  France."  I  never  met  Ospovat, 
but  I  was  intimate  with  some  of  his  friends 
while  he  was  at  South  Kensington.  In  those 
days  I  used  to  hear  "  what  Ospovat  thought " 
about  everything.  He  must  have  been 
listened  to  with  great  respect  by  his  fellow- 
students.  And  sometimes  one  of  them 
would  come  to  me,  with  the  air  of  doing  me  a 
favour  (as  indeed  he  was)  and  say:  "Look 
here.  Do  you  want  to  buy  something 
good,  at  simply  no  price  at  all? "  And  I 
became  the  possessor  of  a  beautiful  sketch  by 

79 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

14  Jan.  *op  Ospovat,  while  the  intermediary  went  off 
with  a  look  on  his  face  as  if  saying:  "  Con- 
sider yourself  lucky,  my  boy!"  I  used  even 
to  get  Ospovat's  opinions  on  my  books,  now 
and  then  very  severe.  I  wanted  to  meet 
him.  But  I  never  could.  The  youths  used 
to  murmur:  "Oh!  It's  no  use  you  meeting 
him."  They  were  afraid  he  was  not  spec- 
tacular enough.  Or  they  desired  to  keep 
him  to  themselves,  like  a  precious  pearl.  I 
pictured  him  as  very  frail,  and  very  positive 
in  a  quiet  way.  He  was  only  about  thirty 
when  he  died  last  week. 


80 


FRENCH  AND  BRITISH 
ACADEMIES 

Although  we  know  in  our  hearts  that  the  21  /a«-  '09 
French  Academy  is  a  foolish  institution, 
designed  and  kept  up  for  the  encouragement 
of  mediocrity,  correct  syntax,  and  the  status 
quo,  we  still,  also  in  our  hearts,  admire 
it  and  watch  its  mutations  with  the  respect 
which  we  always  give  to  foreign  phenomena 
and  usually  withold  from  phenomena  British. 
The  last-elected  member  is  M.  Francis 
Charmes.  His  sole  title  to  be  an  Acade- 
mician is  that  he  directs  "  La  Revue  des 
deux  Mondes,"  which  pays  good  prices  to 
Academic  contributors.  And  this  is,  of 
course,  a  very  good  title.  Even  his  official 
"  welcomer,"  M.  Henry  Houssaye,  did  not 
assert  that  M.  Charmes  had  ever  written  any- 
thing more  important  or  less  mortal  than 
leaders  and  paragraphs  in  the  "  Journal  des 
Debates."  M.  Henry  Houssaye  was  himself 
once  a  journalist.  But  he  thought  better 
of  that,  and  became  a  historian.  He  has 
written  one  or  two  volumes  which,  without 
being  unreadable,  have  achieved  immense 
popularity.  Stevenson  used  to  delve  in 
them  for  matter  suitable  to  his  romances. 
The  French  Academy  now  contains  pretty 

81 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

21  Jan.  'og  nearly  everything  except  first-class  literary 
artists.  Anatole  France  is  a  first-class 
literary  artist  and  an  Academician;  but  he 
makes  a  point  of  never  going  near  the 
Academy.  Perhaps  the  best  writer  among 
"  devout "  Academicians  is  Maurice  Barres. 
Unhappily  his  comic-opera  politics  prove 
that  in  attempting  Parnassus  he  mistook 
his  mountain.  Primrose  Hill  would  have 
been  more  in  his  line.  Still,  he  wrote  "  Le 
Jardin  de  Berenice  "  :  a  novel  which  I  am 
afraid  to  read  again  lest  I  should  fail  to 
recapture  the  first  fine  careless  rapture  it 
gave  me. 

Personally,  I  think  our  British  Academy 
is  a  far  more  brilliant  affair  than  the  French. 
There  is  no  nonsense  about  it.  At  least  very 
little,  except  Mr.  Balfour.  I  believe,  from 
inductive  processes  of  thought,  that  when 
Mr.  Balfour  gets  into  his  room  of  a  night  he 
locks  the  door — and  smiles.  Not  the  urbane 
smile  that  fascinates  and  undoes  even 
Radical  journalists — quite  another  smile. 
Never  could  this  private  smile  have  been 
more  subtle  than  on  the  night  of  the  day 
when  he  permitted  himself  to  be  elected  a 
member  of  the  British  Academy.  Further, 
let  it  not  be  said  that  our  Academy  excludes 

82 


FRENCH  AND  BRITISH  ACADEMIES 

novelists  and  journalists.  We  novelists  are  21  Jan.  '09 
ably  represented  by  Mr.  Andrew  Lang, 
author  of  "  Prince  Prigio  "  and  part-author 
of  "The  World's  Desire."  And  v^e  jour- 
nalists have  surely  an  adequate  spokes- 
man in  the  person  of  the  author  of  "  Lost 
Leaders."  Mr.  Lang  has  also  dabbled  in 
history. 


83 


POE  AND  THE  SHORT  STORY 

28  Jan.  '09  The  great  Edgar  Allan  Poe  celebration 
has  passed  off,  and  no  one  has  been  seriously 
hurt  by  the  terrific  display  of  fireworks. 
Some  of  the  set  pieces  were  pretty  fair; 
for  example,  Mr.  G.  B.  Shaw's  in  the  Nation 
and  Prof.  C.  H.  Herford's  in  the  Manchester 
Guardian.  On  the  whole,  however,  the 
enthusiasm  was  too  much  in  the  nature  of 
mere  good  form.  If  only  we  could  have  a 
celebration  of  Omar  Khayyam,  Tennyson, 
Gilbert  White,  or  the  inventor  of  Bridge,  the 
difference  between  new  and  manufactured 
enthusiasm  would  be  apparent.  We  have 
spent  several  happy  weeks  in  conceitedly 
explaining  to  that  barbaric  race,  the  Ameri- 
cans, that  in  Poe  they  have  never  appre- 
ciated their  luck.  Yet  we  ourselves  have 
never  understood  Poe.  And  we  never  shall 
understand  Poe.  It  is  immensely  to  our 
credit  that,  owing  to  the  admirable  ob- 
stinacy of  Mr.  J.  H.  Ingram,  we  now  admit 
that  Poe  was  neither  a  drunkard,  a  debau- 
chee, nor  a  cynical  eremite.  This  is  about  as 
far  as  we  shall  get.  Poe's  philosophy  of  art, 
as  discovered  in  his  essays  and  his  creative 
work,  is  purely  Latin  and,  as  such,  incom- 
prehensible and  even  naughty  to  the  Saxon 

84 


POE  AND  THE  SHORT  STORY 

mind.  To  the  average  bookish  Englishman  28  Jan.  'oq 
Poe  means  "  The  Pit  and  the  Pendulum," 
and  his  finest  poetry  means  nothing  at  all. 
Tell  that  Englishman  that  Poe  wrote  more 
beautiful  lyrics  than  Tennyson,  and  he  will 
blankly  put  you  down  as  mad.     (So  shall  I.) 

Once,  and  not  many  years  since,  I  con- 
templated editing  a  complete  edition  of  Poe, 
with  a  brilliant  introduction  in  which  I  was 
to  show  that  the  appearance  of  a  tempera- 
ment like  his  in  the  United  States  in  the 
early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  was 
the  most  puzzling  miracle  that  can  be  found 
in  the  whole  history  of  literature.  Then, 
naturally,  I  intended  to  explain  the  miracle. 
My  plans  were  placed  before  a  wise  and  good 
publisher,  whose  reply  was  to  indicate  two 
very  respectable  complete  editions  of  Poe 
which  had  eminently  failed  with  the  public. 
Further  enquiries  satisfied  me  that  the 
public  had  no  immediate  use  for  anything 
elaborate,  final,  and  expensive  concerning 
Poe.  My  bright  desire  therefore  paled  and 
flickered  out.  Since  then  I  have  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  I  know  practically  noth- 
ing of  the  "  secret  of  Poe,"  and  that  nobody 
else  knows  much  more. 

8s 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

28  Jan.  'op  It  was  inevitable  that,  apropos  of  Poe,  our 
customary  national  nonsense  about  the 
"  art  of  the  short  story "  should  have 
recurred  in  a  painful  and  acute  form.  It  is 
a  platitude  of  "  Literary  Pages "  that 
Anglo-Saxon  writers  cannot  possess  them- 
selves of  the  "  art  of  the  short  story."  The 
only  reason  advanced  has  been  that  Guy  de 
Maupassant  wrote  very  good  short  stories, 
and  he  was  French!  God  be  thanked!  Last 
week  we  all  admitted  that  Poe  had  under- 
stood the  "  art  of  the  short  story."  (His 
name  had  not  occurred  to  us  before.); 
Henceforward  our  platitude  will  be  that 
no  Anglo-Saxon  writer  can  compass  the 
"  art  of  the  short  story "  unless  his  name 
happens  to  be  Poe.  Another  platitude  is 
that  the  short  story  is  mysteriously  somehow 
more  difficult  than  the  long  story — the  novel. 
Whenever  I  meet  that  phrase,  "  art  of  the 
short  story,"  in  the  press  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
drunk  mustard-and-water.  And  I  would 
like  here  to  state  that  there  are  as  good 
short  stories  in  English  as  in  any  language, 
and  that  the  whole  theory  of  the  unsuit- 
ability  of  English  soil  to  that  trifling  plant 
the  short  story  is  ridiculous.  Nearly  every 
novelist  of  the  nineteenth  century,  from 
Scott   to    Stevenson,    wrote    first-class    short 

86 


POE  AND  THE  SHORT  STORY 

stories.    There  are  now  working  in  England  ^^  Jo,n.  *og 

to-day  at  least  six  writers   who  can  write, 

and  have  written,   better  short  stories  than 

any   living  writer   of   their   age   in   France. 

As   for   the   greater   difficulty   of   the   short 

story,   ask   any  novelist  who   has   succeeded 

equally  well  in  both.     Ask  Thomas  Hardy, 

ask  George  Meredith  ask  Joseph  Conrad,  ask 

H.    G.    Wells,    ask    Murray    Gilchrist,    ask 

George    Moore,    ask    Eden    Phillpotts,    ask 

"  Q.,"  ask  Henry  James.     Lo!  I  say  to  all 

facile  gabblers  about  the  "  art  of  the  short 

story,"     as   the   late   "  C.    B."    said    to   Mr. 

Balfour:  "Enough  of  this  foolery!"     It  is 

of  a  piece  with  the  notion  that  a  fine  sonnet 

is  more  difficult  than  a  fine  epic. 


87 


MIDDLE-CLASS 

4  Feb.  'op  As  a  novelist,  a  creative  artist  working  in 
the  only  literary  "  form "  which  widely 
appeals  to  the  public,  I  sometimes  wonder 
curiously  what  the  public  is.  Not  often, 
because  it  is  bad  for  the  artist  to  think  often 
about  the  public.  I  have  never  by  enquiry 
from  those  experts  my  publishers  learnt  any- 
thing useful  or  precise  about  the  public.  I 
hear  the  words  "  the  public,"  "  the  public," 
uttered  in  awe  or  in  disdain,  and  this  is  all. 
The  only  conclusion  which  can  be  drawn 
from  what  I  am  told  is  that  the  public  is  the 
public.  Still,  it  appears  that  my  chief  pur- 
chasers are  the  circulating  libraries.  It  ap- 
pears that  without  the  patronage  of  the  circu- 
lating libraries  I  should  either  have  to  live  on 
sixpence  a  day  or  starve.  Hence,  when  my 
morbid  curiosity  is  upon  me,  I  stroll  into 
Mudie's  or  the  Times  Book  Club,  or  I  hover 
round  Smith's  bookstall  at  Charing  Cross. 

The  crowd  at  these  places  is  the  pros- 
perous crowd,  the  crowd  which  grumbles  at 
income-tax  and  pays  it.  Three  hundred  and 
seventy-five  thousand  persons  paid  income- 
tax  last  year,  under  protest:  they  stand  for 
the  existence  of  perhaps  a  million  souls,  and 

88 


MIDDLE-CLASS 

this  million  is  a  handful  floating  more  or  less  4  Feb.  'op 
easily  on  the  surface  of  the  forty  millions  of 
the  population.  The  great  majority  of  my 
readers  must  be  somewhere  in  this  million. 
There  can  be  few  hirers  of  books  who  neither 
pay  income-tax  nor  live  on  terms  of  depend- 
ent equality  with  those  who  pay  it.  I  see 
at  the  counters  people  on  whose  foreheads  it 
is  written  that  they  know  themselves  to  be 
the  salt  of  the  earth.  Their  assured,  curt  " 
voices,  their  proud  carriage,  their  clothes, 
the  similarity  of  their  manners,  all  show  that 
they  belong  to  a  caste  and  that  the  caste  has 
been  successful  in  the  struggle  for  life.  It 
is  called  the  middle-class,  but  it  ought  to  be 
called  the  upper-class,  for  nearly  everything 
is  below  it.  I  go  to  the  Stores,  to  Harrod's 
Stores,  to  Barker's,  to  Rumpelmeyer's,  to 
the  Royal  Academy,  and  and  to  a  dozen  clubs 
in  Albemarle  Street  and  Dover  Street,  and 
I  see  again  just  the  same  crowd,  well-fed, 
well-dressed,  completely  free  from  the  cares 
which  beset  at  least  five-sixths  of  the 
English  race.  They  have  worries;  they 
take  taxis  because  they  must  not  indulge  in 
motor-cars,  hansoms  because  taxis  are  an 
extravagance,  and  omnibuses  because  they 
really  must  economise.  But  they  never 
look   twice   at   twopence.     They   curse    the 

89 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Feb.  'op  injustice  of  fate,  but  secretly  they  are  aware 
of  their  luck.  When  they  have  nothing  to 
do,  they  say,  in  effect:  "Let's  go  out  and 
spend  something."  And  they  go  out.  They 
spend  their  lives  in  spending.  They  delib- 
erately gaze  into  shop  windows  in  order  to 
discover  an  outlet  for  their  money.  You 
can  catch  them  at  it  any  day. 


I  do  not  belong  to  this  class  by  birth. 
Artists  very  seldom  do.  I  was  born  slightly 
beneath  it.  But  by  the  help  of  God 
and  strict  attention  to  business  I  have 
gained  the  right  of  entrance  into  it.  I 
admit  that  I  have  imitated  its  deportment, 
with  certain  modifications  of  my  own;  I 
think  its  deportment  is  in  many  respects 
worthy  of  imitation.  I  am  acquainted  with 
members  of  it;  some  are  artists  like  myself; 
a  few  others  win  my  sympathy  by  honestly 
admiring  my  work;  and  the  rest  I  like 
because  I  like  them.  But  the  philosopher  in 
me  cannot,  though  he  has  tried,  melt  away 
my  profound  and  instinctive  hostility  to  this 
class.  Instead  of  decreasing,  my  hostility 
grows.  I  say  to  myself :  "  I  can  never  be 
content  until  this  class  walks  along  the  street 
in  a  different  manner,  until  that  now  absurd 

90 


MIDDLE-CLASS 

legend  has  been  worn  clean  off  its  forehead."  4  P^^-  'op 
Henry  Harland  was  not  a  great  writer,  but 
he  said:  //  faut  souffrir  pour  etre  sel.  I 
ask  myself  impatiently:  "When  is  this  salt 
going  to  begin  to  suffer? "  That  is  my 
attitude  towards  the  class.  I  frequent  it 
but  little.  Nevertheless  I  know  it  inti- 
mately, nearly  all  the  intimacy  being  on 
my  side.  For  I  have  watched  it  during 
long,  agreeable  sardonic  months  and  years 
in  foreign  hotels.  In  foreign  hotels  you  get 
the  essence  of  it,  if  not  the  cream. 

Chief  among  its  characteristics — after  its 
sincere  religious  worship  of  money  and 
financial  success — I  should  put  its  intense 
self-consciousness  as  a  class.  The  world  is  a 
steamer  in  which  it  is  travelling  saloon. 
Occasionally  it  goes  to  look  over  from  the 
promenade  deck  at  the  steerage.  Its  feel- 
ings towards  the  steerage  are  kindly.  But 
the  tone  in  which  it  says  "  the  steerage " 
cuts  the  steerage  off  from  it  more  effectually 
than  many  bulkheads.  You  perceive  also 
from  that  tone  that  it  could  never  be  sur- 
prised by  anything  that  the  steerage  might 
do.  Curious  social  phenomenon,  the  steer- 
age! In  the  saloon  there  runs  a  code,  the 
only  possible  code,  the  final  code;  and  it  is 

91 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Feb.  '09  observed.  If  it  is  not  observed,  the  in- 
fraction causes  pain,  distress.  Another 
marked  characteristic  is  its  gigantic  tem- 
peramental dullness,  unresponsiveness  to 
external  suggestion,  a  lack  of  humour — in 
short,  a  heavy  and  half-honest  stupidity; 
ultimate  product  of  gross  prosperity,  too 
much  exercise,  too  much  sleep.  Then  I 
notice  a  grim  passion  for  the  status  quo. 
This  is  natural.  Let  these  people  exclaim 
as  they  will  against  the  structure  of  society, 
the  last  thing  they  desire  is  to  alter  it.  This 
passion  shows  itself  in  naive  admiration  for 
everything  that  has  survived  its  original 
usefulness,  such  as  sail-drill  and  uniforms.- 
Its  mirror  of  true  manhood  remains  that 
excellent  and  appalling  figure,  the  Brush- 
wood Boy.  The  passion  for  the  status  quo 
also  shows  itself  in  a  general  defensive, 
sullen  hatred  of  all  ideas  whatever.  You 
cannot  argue  with  these  people.  "  Do  you 
really  think  so?  "  they  will  politely  murmur, 
when  you  have  asserted  your  belief  that  the 
earth  is  round,  or  something  like  that.  And 
their  tone  says:  "Would  you  mind  very 
much  if  we  leave  this  painful  subject? 
My  feelings  on  it  are  too  deep  for  utterance." 
Lastly,  I  am  impressed  by  their  attitude 
towards   the   artist,   which   is   mediaeval,   or 


MIDDLE-CLASS 

perhaps  Roman.  Blind  to  nearly  every  4  Feb.  *op 
form  of  beauty,  they  scorn  art,  and  scorning 
art  they  scorn  artists.  It  was  this  class 
which,  at  inaugurations  of  public  edifices, 
invented  the  terrible  toast-formula,  "  The 
architect  and  contractor."  And  if  epics  were 
inaugurated  by  banquet,  this  class  would 
certainly  propose  the  health  of  the  poet  and 
printer,  after  the  King  and  the  publishers. 
Only  sheer  ennui  sometimes  drives  it  to  seek 
distraction  in  the  artist's  work.  It  prefers 
the  novelist  among  artists  because  the  novel 
gives  the  longest  surcease  from  ennui  at  the 
least  expenditure  of  money  and  effort. 

It  is  inevitable  that  I  shall  be  accused  of 
exaggeration,  cynicism,  or  prejudice:  prob- 
ably all  three.  Whenever  one  tells  the 
truth  in  this  island  of  compromise,  one  is 
sure  to  be  charged  on  these  counts,  and  to 
be  found  guilty.  But  I  too  am  of  the  sport- 
ing race,  and  forty  years  have  taught  me  that 
telling  the  truth  is  the  most  dangerous  and 
most  glorious  of  all  forms  of  sport.  Alpine 
climbing  in  winter  is  nothing  to  it.  I  like 
it.  I  will  only  add  that  I  have  been  speaking 
of  the  solid  bloc  of  the  caste;  I  admit  the 
existence  of  a  broad  fringe  of  exceptions. 
And  I  truly  sympathize  with  the  bloc.    I  do 

93 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Feb.  'op  not  blame  the  bloc.  I  know  that  the  mem- 
bers of  the  bloc  are,  like  me,  the  result  of 
evolutionary  forces  now  spent.  My  hos- 
tility to  the  bloc  is  beyond  my  control,  an 
evolutionary  force  gathering  way.  Upon 
my  soul,  I  love  the  bloc.  But  when  I 
sit  among  it,  clothed  in  correctness,  and 
reflect  that  the  bloc  maintains  me  and  mine 
in  a  sort  of  comfort,  because  I  divert  its 
leisure,  the  humour  of  the  situation  seems 
to  me  enormous. 

II  Feb.  'op  I  continue  my  notes  on  the  great  stolid 
comfortable  class  which  forms  the  backbone 
of  the  novel-reading  public.  The  best  novel- 
ists do  not  find  their  material  in  this  class. 
Thomas  Hardy,  never.  H.  G.  Wells,  almost 
never;  now  and  then  he  glances  at  it 
ironically,  in  an  episodic  manner.  Hale 
White  (Mark  Rutherford),  never.  Rudyard 
Kipling,  rarely;  when  he  touches  it,  the 
reason  is  usually  because  it  happens  to 
embrace  the  military  caste,  and  the  result 
is  usually  such  mawkish  stories  as  "  William 
the  Conqueror "  and  "  The  Brushwood 
Boy."  J.  M.  Barrie,  never.  W.  W.  Jacobs, 
never.  Murray  Gilchrist,  never.  Joseph 
Conrad,  never.  Leonard  Merrick,  very 
slightly.     George  Moore,  in  a  "  Drama  in 

94 


MIDDLE-CLASS 

Muslin,"  wrote  a  masterpiece  about  it  4  Feb.  '09 
twenty  years  ago ;  "  Vain  Fortune  "  is  also 
good;  but  for  a  long  time  it  had  ceased  to 
interest  the  artist  in  him,  and  his  very  finest 
work  ignores  it.  George  Meredith  was  writ- 
ing greatly  about  it  thirty  years  ago.  Henry 
James,  with  the  chill  detachment  of  an 
outlander,  fingers  the  artistic  and  cosmo- 
politan fringe  of  it.  In  a  rank  lower  than 
these,  we  have  William  de  Morgan  and  John 
Galsworthy.  The  former  does  not  seem  to 
be  inspired  by  it.  As  for  John  Galsworthy, 
the  quality  in  him  which  may  possibly 
vitiate  his  right  to  be  considered  a  major 
artist  is  precisely  his  fierce  animosity  to  this 
class.  Major  artists  are  seldom  so  cruelly 
hostile  to  anything  whatever  as  John  Gals- 
worthy is  to  this  class.  He  does  in  fiction 
what  John  Sargent  does  in  paint;  and  their 
inimical  observation  of  their  subjects  will 
gravely  prejudice  both  of  them  in  the  eyes  of 
posterity.  I  think  I  have  mentioned  all  the 
novelists  who  have  impressed  themselves  at 
once  on  the  public  and  genuinely  on  the 
handful  of  persons  whose  taste  is  severe  and 
sure.  There  may  be,  there  are,  other 
novelists  alive  whose  work  will  end  by 
satisfying  the  tests  of  the  handful.  Whether 
any  of  these  others   deal   mainly  with   the 

95 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Feb.  'op  superior  stolid  comfortable,  I  cannot  cer- 
tainly say;  but  I  think  not.  I  am  ready  to 
assert  that  in  quite  modern  English  fiction 
there  exists  no  large  and  impartial  picture  of 
the  superior  stolid  comfortable  which  could 
give  pleasure  to  a  reader  of  taste.  Rather 
hard  on  the  class  that  alone  has  made  novel- 
writing  a  profession  in  which  a  man  can 
earn  a  reasonable  livelihood! 

The  explanation  of  this  state  of  affairs  is 
obscure.  True,  that  distinguished  artists 
are  very  seldom  born  into  the  class.  But 
such  an  explanation  would  be  extremely 
inadequate.  Artists  often  move  creatively 
with  ease  far  beyond  the  boundaries  of  their 
native  class.  Thomas  Hardy  is  not  a 
peasant,  nor  was  Stendhal  a  marquis.  I 
could  not,  with  any  sort  of  confidence,  offer 
an  explanation.  I  am,  however,  convinced 
that  only  a  supreme  artist  could  now  handle 
successfully  the  material  presented  by  the 
class  in  question.  The  material  itself  lacks 
interest,  lacks  essential  vitality,  lacks  both 
moral  and  spectacular  beauty.  It  power- 
fully repels  the  searcher  after  beauty  and 
energy.  It  may  be  in  a  decay.  One  cannot 
easily  recall  a  great  work  of  art  of  which  the 
subject  is  decadence. 

96 


MIDDLE-CLASS 

The  backbone  of  the  novel-reading  public  Ji  Pe^-  '09 
is  excessively  difficult  to  please,  and  rarely 
capable  of  enthusiasm.  Listen  to  Mudie 
subscribers  on  the  topic  of  fiction  and  you 
will  scarcely  ever  hear  the  accent  of  un- 
mixed pleasure.  It  is  surprising  how  even 
favourites  are  maltreated  in  conversation. 
Some  of  the  most  successful  favourites  seem 
to  be  hated,  and  to  be  read  under  protest. 
The  general  form  of  approval  is  a  doubtful 
"  Ye-es ! "  with  a  whole  tail  of  unspoken 
"  buts  "  lying  behind  it.  Occasionally  you 
catch  the  ecstatic  note,  "Oh I  Yes;  a  sweet 
book!  "  Or,  with  masculine  curtness:  "  Fine 
book,  that!"  (For  example,  "The  Hill," 
by  Horace  Annesley  Vachell!)  It  is  in 
the  light  of  such  infrequent  exclamations 
that  you  may  judge  the  tepid  reluctance  of 
other  praise.  The  reason  of  all  this  is 
twofold;  partly  in  the  book,  and  partly 
in  the  reader.  The  backbone  dislikes  the 
raising  of  any  question  which  it  deems  to 
have  been  decided:  a  peculiarity  which  at 
once  puts  it  in  opposition  to  all  fine  work, 
and  to  nearly  all  passable  second-rate  work. 
It  also  dislikes  being  confronted  with  any- 
thing that  it  considers  "  unpleasant,"  that 
is  to  say,  interesting.  It  has  a  genuine 
horror  of  the  truth  neat.     It  quite  honestly 

97 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

II  Feb.  'op  asks  "  to  be  taken  out  of  itself,"  unaware 
that  to  be  taken  out  of  itself  is  the  very  last 
thing  it  really  desires.  What  it  wants  is  to 
be  confirmed  in  itself.  Its  religion  is  the 
status  quo.  The  difficulties  of  the  enter- 
prise of  not  offending  it  either  in  subject  or 
treatment  are,  perhaps,  already  sufficiently 
apparent.  But  incomparably  the  greatest 
obstacle  to  pleasing  it  lies  in  the  positive 
fact  that  it  prefers  not  to  be  pleased.  It 
undoubtedly  objects  to  the  very  sensations 
which  an  artist  aims  to  give.  If  I  have 
heard  once,  I  have  heard  fifty  times  resent- 
ful remarks  similar  to:  "I'm  not  going  to 
read  any  more  bosh  by  him/  Why,  I  simply 
couldn't  put  the  thing  down!"  It  is  pro- 
foundly hostile  to  art,  and  the  empire  of  art. 
It  will  not  willingly  yield.  Its  attitude  to 
the  magic  spell  is  its  attitude  to  the  dentist's 
gas-bag.  This  is  the  most  singular  trait  that 
I  have  discovered  in  the  backbone. 

Why,  then,  does  the  backbone  put  itself 
to  the  trouble  of  reading  current  fiction? 
The  answer  is  that  it  does  so,  not  with  any 
artistic,  spiritual,  moral,  or  informative 
purpose,  but  simply  in  order  to  pass  time. 
Lately,  one  hears,  it  has  been  neglecting 
fiction  in  favour  of  books  of  memoirs,  often 

98 


MIDDLE-CLASS 

scandalous,  and  historical  compilations,  for  //  Feb.  'op 
the  most  part  scandalous  sexually.  That  it 
should  tire  of  the  fiction  offered  to  it  is  not 
surprising,  seeing  that  it  so  seldom  gets  the 
fiction  of  its  dreams.  The  supply  of  good, 
workmanlike  fiction  is  much  larger  to-day 
than  ever  it  was  in  the  past.  The  same  is  to 
be  said  of  the  supply  of  genuinely  distin- 
guished fiction.  But  the  supply  of  fiction 
which  really  appeals  to  the  backbone  of  the 
fiction-reading  public  is  far  below  the  de- 
mand. The  backbone  grumbles,  but  it  con- 
tinues to  hire  the  offensive  stufif,  because  it 
cannot  obtain  sufficient  of  the  inoffensive, — 
and  time  hangs  so  heavy!  The  caprice  for 
grape-nut  history  and  memoirs  cannot  endure, 
for  it  is  partially  a  pose.  Besides,  the  ma- 
terial will  run  short.  After  all.  Napoleon  only 
had  a  hundred  and  three  mistresses,  and 
we  are  already  at  Mademoiselle  Georges. 
The  backbone,  always  loyal  to  its  old  beliefs, 
will  return  to  fiction  with  a  new  gusto,  and 
the  cycle  of  events  will  recommence. 

But  it  is  well  for  novelists  to  remember 
that,  in  the  present  phase  of  society  and 
mechanical  conditions  of  the  literary  market 
their  professional  existence  depends  on  the 
fact  that  the  dullest  class  in  England  takes  to 

99 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

II  Feb.  '09  novels  merely  as  a  refuge  from  its  own 
dullness.  And  while  it  is  certain  that  no 
novelist  of  real  value  really  pleases  that  class, 
it  is  equally  certain  that  without  its  support 
(willing  or  unwilling — usually  the  latter), 
no  novelist  could  live  by  his  pen.  Remove 
the  superior  stolid  comfortable,  and  the 
circulating  libraries  would  expire.  And 
exactly  when  the  circulating  libraries 
breathed  their  last  sigh  the  publishers 
of  fiction  would  sympathetically  give  up 
the  ghost.  If  you  happen  to  be  a  literary 
artist,  it  makes  you  think — the  reflection 
that  when  you  dine  you  eat  the  bread 
unwillingly  furnished  by  the  enemies  of  art 
and  of  progress. 


fioo 


THE  POTENTIAL  PUBLIC 

I  WANT  to  dig  a  little  deeper  through  the  ^8  Feb,  '09 
strata  of  the  public.  Below  the  actual  fic- 
tion-reading public  which  I  have  described, 
there  is  a  much  vaster  potential  public.  It 
exists  in  London,  and  it  exists  also  in  the 
provinces.  I  will  describe  it  as  I  have  found 
it  in  the  industrial  midlands  and  north. 
Should  the  picture  seem  black,  let  me  say 
that  my  picture  of  a  similar  public  in  London 
would  be  even  blacker.  In  all  essential 
qualities  I  consider  the  lower  middle-class 
which  regards,  say,  Manchester  as  its  centre, 
to  be  superior  to  the  lower  middle-class 
which  regards  Charing  Cross  as  its  centre. 

All  around  Manchester  there  are  groups  of 
municipalities  which  lie  so  close  to  one 
another  that  each  group  makes  one  town. 
Take  a  medium  group  comprising  a  quarter 
of  a  million  inhabitants,  with  units  ranging 
from  sixty  down  to  sixteen  thousand.  I  am 
not  going  to  darken  my  picture  with  a  back- 
ground of  the  manual  workers,  the  immense 
majority  of  whom  never  read  anything  that 
costs  more  than  a  penny — unless  it  be 
"  Gale's  Special."  I  will  deal  only  with  the 
comparatively  enlightened  crust — employers, 

lOI 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i8  Feb.  'op  clerks,  officials,  and  professional  men,  and 
their  families — which  has  formed  on  the 
top  of  the  mass,  with  an  average  income  of 
possibly  two  hundred  per  annum  per  family. 
This  crust  is  the  elite  of  the  group.  It 
represents  its  highest  culture,  and  in  bulk 
it  is  the  "  lower  middle-class "  of  Tory 
journalism.  In  London  some  of  the  glitter 
of  the  class  above  it  is  rubbed  on  to  it  by 
contact.  One  is  apt  to  think  that  because 
there  are  bookshops  in  the  Strand  and  large 
circulating  libraries  in  Oxford  Street,  and 
these  thoroughfares  are  thronged  with  the 
lower  middle-class,  therefore  the  lower 
middle-class  buys  or  hires  books.  In 
my  industrial  group  the  institutions  and 
machinery  perfected  by  the  upper  class  for 
itself  do  not  exist  at  all,  and  one  may  watch 
the  lower  without  danger  of  being  led  to 
false  conclusions  by  the  accidental  propin- 
quity of  phenomena  that  have  really  nothing 
whatever  to  do  with  it. 

Now  in  my  group  of  a  quarter  of  a  million 
souls  there  is  not  a  single  shop  devoted 
wholly  or  principally  to  the  sale  of  books. 
Not  one.  You  might  discover  a  shop 
specializing  in  elephants  or  radium;  but  a 
real  bookshop  does  not  exist.    In  a  town  of 

102 


THE  POTENTIAL  PUBLIC 

forty  thousand  inhabitants  there  will  be  a  i8  Feb.  'op 
couple  of  stationers,  whose  chief  pride  is 
that  they  are  "  steam  printers "  or  litho- 
graphers. Enter  their  shops,  and  you 
will  see  a  few  books.  Tennyson  in  gilt. 
Volumes  of  the  Temple  Classics  or  Every- 
man. Hymn  books,  Bibles.  The  latest  cheap 
Shakespeare.  Of  new  books  no  example 
except  the  brothers  Hocking.  The  stationer 
will  tell  you  that  there  is  no  demand  for 
books;  but  that  he  can  procure  anything 
you  specially  want  by  return  of  post.  He 
will  also  tell  you  that  on  the  whole  he  makes 
no  profit  out  of  books;  what  trifle  he  cap- 
tures on  his  meagre  sales  he  loses  on  books 
unsold.  He  may  inform  you  that  his  rival 
has  entirely  ceased  to  stock  books  of  any 
sort,  and  that  he  alone  stands  for  letters 
in  the  midst  of  forty  thousand  people.  In 
a  town  of  sixty  thousand  there  will  be  a 
largeish  stationer's  with  a  small  separate 
book  department.  Contents  similar  to  the 
other  shop,  with  a  fair  selection  of  cheap 
reprints,  and  half  a  dozen  of  the  most 
notorious  new  novels,  such  as  novels  by 
Marie  Corelli,  Max  Pemberton,  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward.  That  is  all.  Both  the  shops 
described  will  have  two  or  three  regular 
book-buying  clients,   not  more  than   ten  in 

103 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i8  Feb.  'op  a  total  of  a  hundred  thousand.  These  ten 
are  book-lovers.  They  follow  the  book  lists. 
They  buy  to  the  limit  of  their  purses.  And 
in  the  cult  of  literature  they  keep  themselves 
quite  apart  from  the  society  of  the  town, 
despising  it.  The  town  is  simply  aware  that 
they  are  "  great  readers." 

Another  agency  for  the  radiation  of  light 
in  the  average  town  first  mentioned  is  the 
Municipal  Free  Library.  The  yearly  sum 
spent  on  it  is  entirely  inadequate  to  keep  it 
up-to-date.  A  fraction  of  its  activity  is 
beneficial,  as  much  to  the  artisan  as  to 
members  of  the  crust.  But  the  chief  result 
of  the  penny-in-the-pound  rate  is  to  supply 
women  old  and  young  with  outmoded, 
viciously  respectable,  viciously  sentimental 
fiction.  A  few  new  novels  get  into  the 
Library  every  year.  They  must,  however, 
be  "  innocuous,"  that  is  to  say,  devoid  of 
original  ideas.  This,  of  course,  is  inevitable 
in  an  institution  presided  over  by  a  com- 
mittee which  has  infinitely  less  personal 
interest  in  books  than  in  politics  or  the  price 
of  coal.  No  Municipal  Library  can  hope 
to  be  nearer  than  twenty-five  years  to  date. 
Go  into  the  average  good  home  of  the  crust, 
in  the  quietude  of  "  after-tea,"  and  you  will 

104 


THE  POTENTIAL  PUBLIC 

see  a  youthful  miss  sitting  over  something  i8  Feb.  '09 
by  Charlotte  M.  Yonge  or  Charles  Kingsley. 
And  that  something  is  repulsively  foul, 
greasy,  sticky,  black.  Remember  that  it 
reaches  from  thirty  to  a  hundred  such  good 
homes  every  year.  Can  you  wonder  that  it 
should  carry  deposits  of  jam,  egg,  butter, 
coffee,  and  personal  dirt?  You  cannot. 
But  you  are  entitled  to  w^onder  why  the 
Municipal  Sanitary  Inspector  does  not  in- 
spect it  and  order  it  to  be  destroyed.  .  .  . 
That  youthful  miss  in  torpidity  over  that 
palimpsest  of  filth  is  what  the  Free  Library 
has  to  show  as  the  justification  of  its  exist- 
ence.   I  know  what  I  am  talking  about. 

A  third  agency  is  the  book-pedlar.  There 
are  firms  of  publishers  who  never  advertise 
in  any  literary  weekly  or  any  daily,  who 
never  publish  anything  new,  and  who  may 
possibly  be  unknown  to  Simpkins  them- 
selves. They  issue  badly-printed,  badly 
bound,  shov^^  editions  of  the  eternal  Scott 
and  the  eternal  Dickens,  in  many  glittering 
volumes  with  scores  of  bleared  illustrations, 
and  they  will  sell  them  up  and  down  the 
provinces  by  means  of  respectably  dressed 
"  commission  agents,"  at  prices  much  in 
excess    of    their    value,    to    an    ingenuous, 

105 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i8  Feb.  'op  ignorant  public  that  has  never  heard  of  Dent 
and  Routledge.  The  books  are  found  in 
houses  where  the  sole  function  of  literature 
is  to  flatter  the  eye.  The  ability  of  these 
subterranean  firms  to  dispose  of  deplorable 
editions  to  persons  who  do  not  want  them  is 
in  itself  a  sharp  criticism  of  the  commercial 
organization  of  the  more  respectable  trade. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  my  group  is 
utterly  cut  off  from  the  newest  develop- 
ments in  imaginative  prose  literature.  No  I 
What  the  bookseller,  the  book-pedlar,  and 
the  Free  Library  have  failed  to  do,  has  been 
accomplished  by  Mr.  Jesse  Boot,  incidentally 
benefactor  of  the  British  provinces  and  the 
brain  of  a  large  firm  of  chemists  and  drug- 
gists with  branches  in  scores,  hundreds,  of 
towns.  He  has  several  branches  in  my 
group.  Each  branch  has  a  circulating 
library,  patronized  by  the  class  which  has 
only  heard  of  Mudie,  and  has  not  heard  of 
the  Grosvenor.  Mr.  Jesse  Boot  has  had  the 
singular  and  beautiful  idea  of  advertising 
his  wares  by  lending  books  to  customers  and 
non-customers  at  a  loss  of  ten  thousand  a 
year.  His  system  is  simplicity  and  it  is 
cheapness.  He  is  generous.  If  you  desire  a 
book  which  he  has  not  got  in  stock  he  will 

io6 


THE  POTENTIAL  PUBLIC 

buy  it  and  lend  it  to  you  for  twopence.  i8  Feb.  'oq 
Thus  in  the  towns  of  my  group  the  effulgent 
centre  of  culture  is  the  chemist's  shop.  The 
sole  point  of  contact  with  living  literature 
is  the  chemist's  shop.  A  wonderful  world, 
this  England!  Two  things  have  principally 
struck  me  about  Mr.  Jesse  Boot's  *  clients. 
One  is  that  they  are  usually  women,  and  the 
other  is  that  they  hire  their  books  at  haphaz- 
ard, nearly  in  the  dark,  with  no  previous 
knowledge  of  what  is  good  and  what  is  bad. 

It  is  to  be  added  that  the  tremendous 
supply  of  sevenpenny  bound  volumes  of 
modern  fiction,  and  of  shilling  bound  vol- 
umes of  modern  belles-lettres  (issued  by 
Nelsons  and  others)  is  producing  a  demand 
in  my  group,  is,  in  fact,  making  book-buyers 
where  previously  there  were  no  book-buyers. 
These  tomes  now  rival  the  works  of  the 
brothers  Hocking  in  the  stationer's  shop. 
Their  standard  is  decidedly  above  the  aver- 
age, owing  largely  to  the  fact  that  the  guide- 
in-chief  of  Messrs.  Nelsons  happens  to  be  a 
genuine  man  of  letters.  I  am  told  that 
Messrs.  Nelsons  alone  sell  twenty  thousand 
volumes  a  week.     Yet  even  they  have  but 

*  Now  Sir  Jesse  Boot 
107 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i8  Feb.  'op  scratched  the  crust.     The  crust  is  still  only 
the    raw   material   of    a   new   book   public. 

If  it  is  cultivated  and  manufactured  with 
skill  it  will  surpass  immeasurably  in  quantity, 
and  quite  appreciably  in  quality,  the  actual 
book-public.  One  may  say  that  the  incep- 
tion of  the  process  has  been  passably  good. 
One  is  inclined  to  prophesy  that  within 
a  moderately  short  period — say  a  dozen 
years — the  centre  of  gravity  of  the  book 
market  will  be  rudely  shifted.  But  the 
event  is  not  yet. 


io8 


H.  G.  WELLS 

Wells!  I  have  heard  that  significant  4  Mar.  'oq 
monosyllable  pronounced  in  various 
European  countries,  and  with  various 
bizarre  accents.  And  always  there  was 
admiration,  passionate  or  astonished,  in 
the  tone.  But  the  occasion  of  its  utterance 
which  remains  historic  in  my  mind  was 
in  England.  I  was,  indeed,  in  Frank 
Richardson's  Bayswater.  "Wells?"  ex- 
claimed a  smart,  positive  little  woman — 
one  of  those  creatures  that  have  settled 
every  question  once  and  for  all  beyond 
reopening,  "Wells?  No!  I  draw  the  line 
at  Wells.  He  stirs  up  the  dregs.  I  don't 
mind  the  froth,  but  dregs  I — ^will — not 
have!"  And  silence  reigned  as  we  stared 
at  the  reputation  of  Wells  lying  dead  on  the 
carpet.  When,  with  the  thrill  of  emotion 
that  a  great  work  communicates,  I  finished 
reading  "  Tono-Bungay,"  I  thought  of  the 
smart  little  woman  in  the  Bayswater 
drawing-room.  I  was  filled  with  a  holy 
joy  because  Wells  had  stirred  up  the  dregs 
again,  and  more  violently  than  ever.  I 
rapturously  reflected,  "  How  angry  this 
will  make  them!"  "Them"  being  the 
whole   innumerable  tribe  of  persons,  inane 

109 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Mar.  'op  or  chumpish  (this  adjective  I  give  to  the 
world),  who  don't  mind  froth  but  won't 
have  dregs.  Human  nature — you  get  it 
pretty  complete  in  "  Tono-Bungay,"  the 
entire  tableau!  If  you  don't  like  the 
spectacle  of  man  whole,  if  you  are  afraid  of 
humanity,  if  humanity  isn't  good  enough 
for  you,  then  you  had  better  look  out  for 
squalls  in  the  perusal  of  "  Tono-Bungay." 
For  me,  human  nature  is  good  enough.  I 
love  to  bathe  deep  in  it.  And  of  "  Tono- 
Bungay  "  I  will  say,  with  solemn  heartiness : 
"By  God  I    This  is  a  book!" 

You  will  have  heard  that  it  is  the  history 
of  a  patent  medicine — the  nostrum  of  the 
title.  But  the  rise  and  fall  of  Tono- 
Bungay  and  its  inventor  make  only  a  small 
part  of  the  book.  It  is  rather  the  history  of 
the  collision  of  the  soul  of  George  Ponderevo 
(narrator,  and  nephew  of  the  medicine-man) 
with  his  epoch.  It  is  the  arraignment  of  a 
whole  epoch  at  the  bar  of  the  conscience  of  a 
man  who  is  intellectually  honest  and  power- 
fully intellectual.  George  Ponderevo  trans- 
gresses most  of  the  current  codes,  but  he 
also  shatters  them.  The  entire  system  of 
sanctions  tumbles  down  with  a  clatter  like 
the  fall  of  a  corrugated  iron  church.     I  do 

no 


H.  G,  WELLS 

not  know  what  is  left  standing,  unless  it  be  4  Mar.  *op 
George  Ponderevo.  I  would  not  call  him  a 
lovable,  but  he  is  an  admirable,  man.  He  is 
too  ruthless,  rude,  and  bitter  to  be  anything 
but  solitary.  His  harshness  is  his  fault,  his 
one  real  fault;  and  his  harshness  also  marks 
the  point  where  his  attitude  towards  his 
environment  becomes  unscientific.  The 
savagery  of  his  description  of  the  family  of 
Frapp,  the  little  Nonconformist  baker,  and 
of  the  tea-drinkers  in  the  housekeeper's 
room  at  Bladesover,  somewhat  impairs  even 
the  astounding  force  of  this,  George's  first 
and  only  novel — not  because  he  exaggerates 
the  offensiveness  of  the  phenomena,  but 
because  he  unscientifically  fails  to  perceive 
that  these  people  are  just  as  deserving  of 
compassion  as  he  is  himself.  He  seems  to 
think  that,  in  their  deafness  to  the  call  of  the 
noble  in  life,  these  people  are  guilty  of  a 
crime;  whereas  they  are  only  guilty  of  a 
misfortune.  The  one  other  slip  that  George 
Ponderevo  has  made  is  a  slight  yielding  to 
the  temptation  of  caricature,  out  of  place 
in  a  realistic  book.  Thus  he  names  a  half- 
penny paper,  "  The  Daily  Decorator,"  and  a 
journalistic  peer,  "  Lord  Boom."  Yet  the 
few  lines  in  which  he  hints  at  the  tactics 
and  the  psychology  of  his  Lord  Boom  are 

III 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Mar.  'op  masterly.  So  much  for  the  narrator,  whose 
"  I  "  writes  the  book.  I  assume  that  Wells 
purposely  left  these  matters  uncorrected, 
as  being  essential  to  the  completeness  of 
George's  self-revelation. 

I  do  not  think  that  any  novelist  ever  more 
audaciously  tried,  or  failed  with  more 
honour,  to  render  in  the  limits  of  one  book 
the  enormous  and  confusing  complexity 
of  a  nation's  racial  existence.  The  measure 
of  success  attained  is  marvellous.  Complete 
success  was,  of  course,  impossible.  But,  in 
the  terrific  rout,  Ponderevo  never  touches  a 
problem  save  to  grip  it  firmly.  He  leaves 
nothing  alone,  and  everything  is  handled — 
handled!  His  fine  detachment,  and  his 
sublime  common-sense,  never  desert  him  in 
the  hour  when  he  judges.  Naturally  his 
chief  weapon  in  the  collision  is  just  common- 
sense;  it  is  at  the  impact  of  mere  common- 
sense  that  the  current  system  crumbles. 
It  is  simply  unanswerable  common-sense 
which  will  infuriate  those  who  do  not  like 
the  book.  When  common-sense  rises  to  the 
lyric,  as  it  does  in  the  latter  half  of  the  tale, 
you  have  something  formidable.  Here  Wells 
has  united  the  daily  verifiable  actualism  of 
novels  like  "  Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham  "  and 

112 


H.  G.  WELLS 

"  Kipps,"  with  the  large  manner  of  the  4  Mar.  *op 
paramount  synthetic  scenes  in  (what  general 
usage  compels  me  to  term)  his  "  scientific 
romances."  In  the  scientific  romance  he 
achieved,  by  means  of  parables  (I  employ 
the  word  roughly)  a  criticism  of  tendencies 
and  institutions  which  is  on  the  plane  of 
epic  poetry.  For  example,  the  criticism  of 
specialization  in  "  The  First  Men  in  the 
Moon,"  the  mighty  ridicule  of  the  institu- 
tion of  sovereignty  in  "  When  the  Sleeper 
Wakes,"  and  the  exquisite  blighting  of 
human  narrow-mindedness  in  "  The  Country 
of  the  Blind," — this  last  one  of  the  radiant 
gems  of  contemporary  literature,  and  printed 
in  the  Strand  Magazine/  In  "  Tono- 
Bungay "  he  has  achieved  the  same  feat, 
magnified  by  ten — or  a  hundred,  without  the 
aid  of  symbolic  artifice.  I  have  used  the 
word  "  epic,"  and  I  insist  on  it.  There  are 
passages  toward  the  close  of  the  book  which 
may  fitly  be  compared  with  the  lyrical 
freedoms  of  no  matter  what  epic,  and  which 
display  an  unsurpassable  dexterity  of  hand. 
Such  is  the  scene  in  which  George  deflects 
his  flying-machine  so  as  to  avoid  Beatrice 
and  her  horse  by  sweeping  over  them.  A 
new  thrill,  there,  in  the  sexual  vibrations  1 
One  thinks  of  it  afterwards.     And  yet  such 

113 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Mar.  'op  flashes  are  lost  when  one  contemplates  the 
steady  shining  of  the  whole.  "  Tono- 
Bungay,"  to  my  mind,  marks  the  junction 
of  the  two  paths  which  the  variety  of  Wells' 
gift  has  enabled  him  to  follow  simultane- 
ously, and,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  his  most 
distinguished   and  most  powerful  book. 

I  have  spoken  of  the  angry  and  the  in- 
furiated. Fury  can  be  hot  or  cold.  Of  the 
cold  variety  is  Claudius  Clear's  in  the 
British  Weekly.  "  Extremely  clever,"  says 
Claudius  Clear.  "  There  is,  however,  no 
sign  of  any  new  power."  But,  by  way  of 
further  praise:  "The  episodes  are  carefully 
selected  and  put  together  with  skill,  and 
there  are  few  really  dull  passages."  This 
about  the  man  of  whom  Maeterlinck  has 
written  that  he  has  "  the  most  complete  and 
the  most  logical  imagination  of  the  age." 
(I  think  Claudius  Clear  may  have  been 
under  the  impression  that  he  was  reviewing 
a  two-hundred-and-fifty-guinea  prize  novel, 
selected  by  Messrs.  Lang  and  Shorter.) 
Further,  "  He  writes  always  from  the  point 
of  a  B.Sc."  But  the  most  humorous  part 
of  the  criticism  is  this.  After  stating  that 
Ponderevo  acknowledges  himself  to  be  a  liar, 
a   swindler,    a    thief,    an    adulterer,    and    a 

114 


H.  G.  WELLS 

murderer,  Claudius  Clear  then  proceeds:  4  Mar.  '09 
"  He  is  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  these 
things.  He  explains  them  away  with  the 
utmost  facility,  and  we  find  him  at  the  age 
of  forty-five,  not  unhappy,  and  successfully 
engaged  in  problems  of  aerial  navigation " 
(my  italics).  Ohl  candid  simplicity  of  soul  I 
Wells,  why  did  you  not  bring  down  the  wrath 
of  God,  or  at  least  make  the  adulterer  fail 
in  the  problems  of  flight?  In  quoting  a 
description  of  the  Frapps,  Claudius  Clear 
says :  "  I  must  earnestly  apologize  for 
extracting  the  following  passage."  Why? 
As  Claudius  Clear  gets  into  his  third  column 
his  fury  turns  from  cold  to  hot:  "It  is 
impossible  for  me  in  these  columns  to  repro- 
duce or  to  describe  the  amorous  episodes  in 
*  Tono-Bungay.'  I  cannot  copy  and  I 
cannot  summarize  the  loathsome  tale  of 
George  Ponderevo's  engagement  and  mar- 
riage and  divorce.  Nor  can  I  speak  of  his 
intrigue  with  a  typist,  and  of  the  orgy  of  lust 
described  at  the  close  of  the  book  ..." 
Now,  there  is  not  a  line  in  the  book  that  could 
not  be  printed  in  the  British  Weekly.  There 
is  not  a  line  which  fails  in  that  sober 
decency  which  is  indispensable  to  the  dignity 
of  a  masterpiece.  As  for  George's  engage- 
ment and  marriage,  it  is  precisely  typical  of 

"5 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Mar.  'op  legions  such  in  England  and  Scotland. 
As  for  the  intrigue  with  a  typist,  has 
Claudius  Clear  never  heard  of  an  intrigue 
with  a  typist  before?  In  faithfully  and 
decently  describing  an  intrigue  with  a 
typist,  has  one  necessarily  written  a  "  Jus- 
tine"? And  why  "orgy  of  lust"?  Orgy 
of  fiddlestick — if  I  am  not  being  irreverent! 
The  most  correct  honeymoon  is  an  orgy  of 
lust;  and  if  it  isn't,  it  ought  to  be.  But 
some  temperaments  find  a  strange  joy  in 
using  the  word  "  lust."  See  the  infuriating 
disquisition  on  "  Mrs.  Grundy  "  in  "  Tono- 
Bungay."  The  odd  thing  is,  having  regard 
to  the  thunders  of  Claudius  Clear,  that 
George  Ponderevo  is  decidedly  more  chaste 
than  nine  men  out  of  ten,  and  than  ninety- 
nine  married  men  out  of  every  hundred. 
And  the  book  emanates  an  austerity  and  a 
self-control  which  are  quite  conspicuous  at 
the  present  stage  of  fiction,  and  which  one 
would  in  vain  search  for  amid  the  veiled 
concupiscence  of  at  least  one  author  whom 
Claudius  Clear  has  praised,  and,  I  think, 
-  never  blamed — at  least  on  that  score.  I  leave 
him  to  guess  the  author. 


ii6 


TCHEHKOFF 

One  of  the  most  noteworthy  of  recent  i8  Mar.  '09 
publications  in  the  way  of  fiction  is  Anton 
Tchehkoff's  "The  Kiss  and  Other  Stories," 
translated  by  Mr.  R.  E.  C.  Long  and  pub- 
lished by  Duckworth  (6s.).  A  similar 
volume,  "  The  Black  Monk "  (same  trans- 
lator and  publisher),  was  issued  some  years 
ago.  Tchehkoff  lived  and  made  a  tre- 
mendous name  in  Russia,  and  died,  and 
England  recked  not.  He  has  been  trans- 
lated into  French,  and  I  believe  that  there 
exists  a  complete  edition  of  his  works  in 
German;  but  these  two  volumes  are  all  that 
we  have  in  English.  The  thanks  of  the 
lettered  are  due  to  Mr.  Long  and  to  his 
publishers.  Tchehkoff's  stories  are  really 
remarkable.  If  anyone  of  authority  stated 
that  they  rank  him  with  the  fixed  stars 
of  Russian  fiction — Dostoievsky,  Turgeneflf, 
Gogol,  and  Tolstoy — I  should  not  be 
ready  to  contradict.  To  read  them,  after 
even  the  finest  stories  of  de  Maupassant  or 
Murray  Gilchrist,  is  like  having  a  bath  after 
a  ball.  Their  effect  is  extraordinarily  one  of 
ingenuousness.  Of  course,  they  are  not  in  the 
least  ingenuous,  as  a  fact,  but  self-conscious 
and  elaborate  to  the  highest  degree.     The 

117 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i8  Mar.  'og  progress  of  every  art  is  an  apparent  progress 
from  conventionality  to  realism.  The  basis 
of  convention  remains,  but  as  the  art 
develops  it  finds  more  and  more  subtle 
methods  fitting  life  to  the  convention  or  the 
convention  to  life — whichever  you  please. 
Tchehkoff's  tales  mark  a  definite  new  con- 
quest in  this  long  struggle.  As  you  read 
him  you  fancy  that  he  must  always  have 
been  saying  to  himself :  "  Life  is  good 
enough  for  me.  I  won't  alter  it.  I  will 
set  it  down  as  it  is."  Such  is  the  tribute  to 
his  success  which  he  forces  from  you. 

He  seems  to  have  achieved  absolute 
realism.  (But  there  is  no  absolute,  and  one 
day  somebody — probably  a  Russian — will 
carry  realism  further.)  His  climaxes  are 
never  strained;  nothing  is  ever  idealized, 
sentimentalized,  etherealized;  no  part  of  the 
truth  is  left  out,  no  part  is  exaggerated. 
There  is  no  cleverness,  no  startling  feat  of 
virtuosity.  All  appears  simple,  candid, 
almost  childlike.  I  could  imagine  the 
editor  of  a  popular  magazine  returning  a 
story  of  Tchehkoff's  with  the  friendly 
criticism  that  it  showed  promise,  and  that 
when  he  had  acquired  more  skill  in  hitting 
the  reader  exactly  between  the  eyes  a  deal 

ii8 


TCHEHKOFF 

might  be  possible.  Tchehkofif  never  hits  i8  Mar.  '09 
you  between  the  eyes.  But  he  will,  never- 
theless leave  you  on  the  flat  of  your  back. 
Beneath  the  outward  simplicity  of  his  work 
is  concealed  the  most  wondrous  artifice,  the 
artifice  that  is  embedded  deep  in  nearly  all 
great  art.  All  we  English  novelists  ought 
to  study  "The  Kiss"  and  "The  Black 
Monk."  They  will  delight  every  person  of 
fine  taste,  but  to  the  artist  they  are  a  pro- 
found lesson.  We  have  no  writer,  and  we 
have  never  had  one,  nor  has  France,  who 
could  mould  the  material  of  life,  without 
distorting  it,  into  such  complex  forms  to  such 
an  end  of  beauty.  Read  these  books,  and 
you  will  genuinely  know  something  about 
Russia;  you  will  be  drenched  in  the  vast 
melancholy,  savage  and  wistful,  of  Russian 
life;  and  you  will  have  seen  beauty.  No 
tale  in  "  The  Kiss "  is  quite  as  marvellous 
as  either  the  first  or  the  last  tale  in  "  The 
Black  Monk,"  perhaps;  but  both  volumes 
are  indispensable  to  one's  full  education.  I 
do  not  exaggerate.  I  must  add  that  on  a 
reader  whose  taste  is  neither  highly  de- 
veloped nor  capable  of  high  development, 
the  effect  of  the  stories  will  be  similar  to 
their  effect  on  the  magazine  editor. 


119 


THE  SURREY  LABOURER 

I  Apr.  'op  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  see  that  Mr. 
George  Bourne's  "  Memoirs  of  a  Surrey- 
Labourer "  (Duckworth)  has,  after  two 
years,  reached  the  distinction  of  a  cheap 
edition  at  half-a-crown.  I  shall  be  sur- 
prised if  this  book  does  not  continue  to  sell 
for  about  a  hundred  years.  And  yet,  also, 
I  am  surprised  that  a  cheap  edition  should 
have  come  so  soon.  The  "  Memoirs "  were 
very  well  received  on  their  original  publica- 
tion in  1907;  some  of  the  reviews  were 
indeed  remarkable  in  the  frankness  with 
which  they  accepted  the  work  as  a  master- 
piece of  portraiture  and  of  sociological 
observation.  But  the  book  had  no  boom 
such  as  Mr.  John  Lane  recently  contrived 
for  another  very  good  and  not  dissimilar 
book,  Mr.  Stephen  Reynolds'  "  A  Poor  Man's 
House."  Mr.  Stephen  Reynolds  was  more 
chattered  about  by  literary  London  in  two 
months  than  Mr.  George  Bourne  has  been  in 
the  eight  years  which  have  passed  since  he 
published  his  first  book  about  Frederick 
Bettesworth,  the  Surrey  labourer  in  question. 
Mr.  Bourne  will  owe  his  popularity  in  2009 
to  the  intrinsic  excellence  of  his  work,  but  he 
owes  his  popularity  in  1909  to  the  dogged 

120 


THE  SURREY  LABOURER 

and  talkative  enthusiasm  of  a  few  experts  i  Apr.  'op 
in  the  press  and  in  the  world,  and  of  his 
publishers.  There  have  been  a  handful  of 
persons  who  were  determined  to  make  this 
exceedingly  fine  book  sell,  or  perish  them- 
selves in  the  attempt;  and  it  has  sold. 
But  not  with  the  help  of  mandarins.  It  is 
not  in  the  least  the  kind  of  book  to  catch 
the  roving  eye  of  a  mandarin.  It  is  too 
proud,  too  austere,  too  true,  and  too  tonically 
cruel  to  appeal  to  mandarins.  It  abounds 
not  at  all  in  quotable  passages.  Its  sub- 
title is:  "A  Record  of  the  last  year  of 
Frederick  Bettesworth."  The  mandarins 
who  happened  to  see  it  no  doubt  turned  to 
seek  the  death  scene  at  the  close,  with 
thoughts  of  how  quotably  Ian  Maclaren 
would  have  described  the  death  of  the  old 
labourer,  worn  out  by  honest  and  ill-paid 
toil,  surrounded  by  his  beloved  fields,  and  so 
forth  and  so  forth.  And  Mr.  George  Bourne's 
description  of  his  hero's  death  would  no 
doubt  put  them  right  off.  I  give  it  in  full: 
"July  25  (Thursday). — Bettesworth  died 
this  evening  at  six  o'clock."  Oh,  Colonel 
Newcome,  sugared  tears,  golden  gates,  glim- 
mering panes,  passings,  pilots,  harbour  bars 
— had  Mr.  George  Bourne  never  heard  of 
you? 

121 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

I  Apr.  'op  I  should  like  to  assume  that  all  enlight- 
ened and  curious  readers  have  already 
perused  this  book  and  its  forerunner,  "  The 
Bettesworth  Book"  (Lamley  and  Co.),  of 
which  a  cheap  edition  is  soon  to  be  had. 
But  my  irritating  mania  for  stopping  facts 
in  the  street  and  gazing  at  them  makes  it 
impossible  for  me  to  assume  any  such  thing. 
I  am  perfectly  certain  that  to  about  70  per 
cent,  of  you  the  name  of  George  Bourne 
means  naught.  I  therefore  need  not  apolo- 
gize for  offering  the  information  that  these 
books  are  books.  They  set  forth  the 
psychology  and  the  everything-else  of  the 
backbone,  foundation,  and  original  stock  of 
the  English  race.  They  deal  with  England. 
Naturally,  the  sacred  name  of  England  will 
call  up  in  your  mind  visions  of  the  Carlton 
Club,  Blenheim,  Regent  Street,  Tubes,  Sel- 
fridge's,  theatre  stalls,  the  crowd  at  Lord's, 
and  the  brilliant  writers  of  the  New  Age. 
And  these  phenomena  are  a  part  of  England; 
but  I  tell  you  that  they  are  all  only  the  froth 
on  the  surface  of  Bettesworth  the  labourer. 
If  you  regard  this  as  a  cryptic  saying,  read 
the  two  books,  and  you  will  see  light. 


122 


SWINBURNE 

On  Good  Friday  night  I  was  out  in  the  22  Apr.  '09 
High  Street,  at  the  cross-roads,  where  the 
warp  and  the  woof  of  the  traffic  assault  each 
other  under  a  great  glare  of  lamps.  The 
shops  were  closed  and  black,  except  where 
a  tobacconist  kept  the  tobacconist's  bright 
and  everlasting  vigil;  but  above  the  shops 
occasional  rare  windows  were  illuminated, 
giving  hints — dressing-tables,  pictures,  gas- 
globes — of  intimate  private  lives.  I  don't 
know  why  such  hints  should  always  seem  to 
me  pathetic,  saddening;  but  they  do.  And 
beneath  them,  through  the  dark  defile  of 
shutters,  motor-omnibuses "  roared  and 
swayed  and  curved,  too  big  for  the  street, 
and  dwarfing  it.  And  automobiles  threaded 
between  them,  and  bicycles  dared  the 
spaces  that  were  left.  From  afar  off  there 
came  a  flying  light,  like  a  shot  out  of  a  gun, 
and  it  grew  into  a  man  perched  on  a  shudder- 
ing contrivance  that  might  have  been 
invented  by  H.  G.  Wells,  and  swept  peril- 
ously into  the  contending  currents,  and 
by  miracles  emerged  untouched,  and  was 
gone,  driven  by  the  desire  of  the  immortal 
soul  within  the  man.  This  strange  thing 
happened  again  and  again.    The  pavements 

123 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

22  Apr.  'op  were  crowded  with  hurrying  or  loitering 
souls,  and  the  omnibuses  and  autos  were 
full  of  them:  hundreds  passed  before  the 
vision  every  moment.  And  they  were 
all  preoccupied;  they  nearly  all  bore  the 
weary,  egotistic  melancholy  that  spreads 
like  an  infection  at  the  close  of  a  fete  day  in 
London;  the  lights  of  a  motor-omnibus 
would  show  the  rapt  faces  of  sixteen  souls 
at  once  in  their  glass  cage,  driving  the 
vehicle  on  by  their  desires.  The  policeman 
and  the  loafers  in  the  ring  of  fire  made  by  the 
public-houses  at  the  cross-roads — even  these 
were  grave  with  the  universal  affliction  of 
life,  and  grim  with  the  relentless  universal 
egotism.  Lovers  walked  as  though  there 
were  no  heaven  and  no  earth,  but  only  them- 
selves in  space.  Nobody  but  me  seemed  to 
guess  that  the  road  to  Delhi  could  be  as 
naught  to  this  road,  with  its  dark,  fleeing 
shapes,  its  shifting  beams,  its  black  brick 
precipices,  and  its  thousand  pale,  flitting 
faces  of  a  gloomy  and  decadent  race.  As 
says  the  Indian  proverb,  I  met  ten  thousand 
men  on  the  Putney  High  Street,  and  they 
were  all  my  brothers.  But  I  alone  was  aware 
of  it.  As  I  stood  watching  autobus  after 
autobus  swing  round  in  a  fearful  semi- 
circle to  begin  a  new  journey,  I  gazed  myself 

124 


SWINBURNE 

into  a  mystic  comprehension  of  the  signifi-  22  'Apr.  'og 
cance  of  what  I  saw.  A  few  yards  beyond 
where  the  autobuses  turned  was  a  certain 
house  with  lighted  upper  windows,  and  in 
that  house  the  greatest  lyric  versifier  that 
England  ever  had,  and  one  of  the  great 
poets  of  the  whole  world  and  of  all  the  ages, 
was  dying:  a  name  immortal.  But  nobody 
looked;  nobody  seemed  to  care;  I  doubt  if 
anyone  thought  of  it.  This  enormous  negli- 
gence appeared  to  me  to  be  fine,  to  be 
magnificently  human. 

The  next  day  all  the  shops  were  open,  and 
hundreds  of  fatigued  assistants  were  pouring 
out  their  exhaustless  patience  on  thousands 
of  urgent  and  bright  women;  and  flags 
waved  on  high,  and  the  gutters  were  banked 
with  yellow  and  white  flowers,  and  the  air 
was  brisk  and  the  roadways  were  clean. 
The  very  vital  spirit  of  energy  seemed  to  have 
scattered  the  breath  of  life  generously,  so 
that  all  were  intoxicated  by  it  in  the  gay 
sunshine.  He  was  dead  then.  The  waving 
posters  said  it.  When  Tennyson  died  I  felt 
less  hurt;  for  I  had  serious  charges  to  bring 
against  Tennyson,  which  impaired  my  affec- 
tion for  him.  But  I  was  more  shocked. 
When  Tennyson   died,   everybody  knew  it, 

125 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

22  Apr.  'og  and  imaginatively  realized  it.  Everybody 
was  touched.  I  was  saddened  then  as  much 
by  the  contagion  of  a  general  grief  as  by  a 
sorrow  of  my  own.  But  there  was  no 
general  grief  on  Saturday.  Swinburne  had 
written  for  fifty  years,  and  never  once 
moved  the  nation,  save  inimically,  when 
"  Poems  and  Ballads "  came  near  to  being 
burnt  publicly  by  the  hangman.  (By  "the 
nation,"  I  mean  newspaper  readers.  The 
real  nation,  busy  with  the  problem  of  eating, 
dying,  and  being  born  all  in  one  room,  has 
never  heard  of  either  Tennyson  or  Swin- 
burne or  George  R.  Sims.)  There  are 
poems  of  Tennyson,  of  Wordsworth,  even 
of  the  speciously  recondite  Browning,  that 
have  entered  into  the  general  consciousness. 
But  nothing  of  Swinburne's!  Swinburne 
had  no  moral  ideas  to  impart.  Swinburne 
never  publicly  yearned  to  meet  his  Pilot  face 
to  face.  He  never  galloped  on  one  of  Lord 
George  Sanger's  horses  from  Aix  to  Ghent. 
He  was  interested  only  in  ideal  manifesta- 
tions of  beauty  and  force.  Except  when  he 
grieved  the  judicious  by  the  expression  of 
political  crudities,  he  never  connected  art 
with  any  form  of  morals  that  the  British 
public  could  understand.  He  sang.  He 
sang  supremely.    And  it  wasn't  enough  for 

126 


SWINBURNE 

the  British  public.  The  consequence  was  22  'Apr.  'og 
that  his  fame  spread  out  as  far  as  under- 
graduates, and  the  tiny  mob  of  under- 
graduates was  the  largest  mob  that  ever 
worried  itself  about  Swinburne.  Their 
shouts  showed  the  high-water  mark  of  his 
popularity.  When  one  of  them  wrote  in  a 
facetious  ecstasy  over  "  Dolores," 

But  you  came,  O  you  procuratores 
And  ran  us  all  in! 

that  moment  was  the  crown  of  Swinburne's 
career  as  a  popular  author.  With  its  incom- 
parable finger  on  the  public  pulse  the  Daily 
Mail,  on  the  day  when  it  announced  Swin- 
burne's death,  devoted  one  of  its  placards 
to  the  performances  of  a  lady  and  a  dog  on  a 
wrecked  liner,  and  another  to  the  antics  of  a 
lunatic  with  a  revolver.  The  Daily  Mail 
knew  what  it  was  about.  Do  not  imagine 
that  I  am  trying  to  be  sardonic  about  the 
English  race  and  its  organs.  Not  at  all. 
The  English  race  is  all  right,  though  ageing 
now.  The  English  race  has  committed  no 
crime  in  demanding  from  its  poets  something 
that  Swinburne  could  not  give.  I  am  merely 
trying  to  make  clear  the  exceeding  strange- 
ness of  the  apparition  of  a  poet  like  Swin- 
burne in  a  place  like  England. 

127 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

22  Apr.  'op  Last  year  I  was  walking  down  Putney  Hill, 
and  I  saw  Swinburne  for  the  first  and  last 
time.  I  could  see  nothing  but  his  face  and 
head.  I  did  not  notice  those  ridiculously 
short  trousers  that  Putney  people  invariably 
mention  when  mentioning  Swinburne.  Never 
have  I  seen  a  man's  life  more  clearly  written 
in  his  eyes  and  mouth  and  forehead.  The 
face  of  a  man  who  had  lived  with  fine, 
austere,  passionate  thoughts  of  his  own! 
By  the  heavens,  it  was  a  noble  sight.  I 
have  not  seen  a  nobler.  Now,  I  knew  by 
hearsay  every  crease  in  his  trousers,  but 
nobody  had  told  me  that  his  face  was  a 
vision  that  would  never  fade  from  my 
memory.  And  nobody,  I  found  afterwards 
by  inquiry,  had  "  noticed  anything  particu- 
lar" about  his  face.  I  don't  mind,  either 
for  Swinburne  or  for  Putney.  I  reflect  that 
if  Putney  Ignored  Swinburne,  he  ignored 
Putney.  And  I  reflect  that  there  is  great 
stuff  in  Putney  for  a  poet,  and  marvel  that 
Swinburne  never  perceived  it  and  used  it. 
He  must  have  been  born  English,  and  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  by  accident.  He  was 
misprized  while  living.  That  is  nothing. 
What  does  annoy  me  is  that  critics  who 
know  better  are  pandering  to  the  national 
hypocrisy    after    his    death.      In    a    dozen 

128 


SWINBURNE 

columns  he  has  been  sped  into  the  unknown  22  Apr.  'og 
as  "a  great  Victorian"!  Miserable  dis- 
honesty I  Nobody  was  ever  less  Victorian 
than  Swinburne.  And  then  when  these 
critics  have  to  skate  over  the  "  Poems  and 
Ballads"  episode — thin,  cracking  ice  I — how 
they  repeat  delicately  the  word  "  sensuous,'* 
"  sensuous."  Out  with  it,  tailorish  and 
craven  minds,  and  say  "sensual!"  For 
sensual  the  book  is.  It  is  fine  in  sensuality, 
and  no  talking  will  ever  get  you  away  from 
that.  Villiers  de  L'Isle  Adam  once  wrote  an 
essay  on  "  Le  Sadisme  Anglais,"  and  sup- 
ported it  with  a  translation  of  a  large  part 
of  "  Anactoria."  And  even  Paris  was 
startled.  A  rare  trick  for  a  supreme 
genius  to  play  on  the  country  of  his  birth, 
enshrining  in  the  topmost  heights  of  its 
literature  a  lovely  poem  that  cannot  be  dis- 
cussed! .  .  .  Well,  Swinburne  has  got  the 
better  of  us  there.  He  has  simply  knocked 
to  pieces  the  theory  that  great  art  is 
inseparable  from  the  Ten  Commandments. 
His  greatest  poem  was  written  in  honour  of 
a  poet  whom  any  English  Vigilance  So- 
ciety would  have  crucified.  "  Sane"  critics 
will  naturally  observe,  in  their  quiet  manner, 
that  "  Anactoria  "  and  similar  feats  were  "  so 
unnecessary."    Would  it  were  true! 

129 


THE  SEVENPENNIES 

2g  Apr.  'op  Some  time  ago  a  meeting  (henceforward 
historic)  took  place  between  Mr.  Longman, 
Mr.  Macmillan,  Mr.  Reginald  Smith,  Mr. 
Methuen,  and  Mr.  Hutchinson,*  of  the  one 
part,  and  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  Mr.  Maurice 
Hewlett,  and  Mr.  Anthony  Hope,  of  the 
other  part.  Mr.  Longman  was  the  host,  and 
the  encounter  must  have  been  touching. 
I  would  have  given  a  complete  set  of  the 
works  of  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  to  have  been 
invisibly  present.  The  publishers  had  in- 
vited the  authors  (who  represented  the 
Authors'  Society),  with  the  object  of  dis- 
suading them  from  allowing  their  books 
to  be  reprinted  at  the  price  of  sevenpence. 
Naturally,  the  publishers,  as  always,  were 
actuated  by  a  pure  desire  for  the  welfare  of 
authors.  Messrs  Shaw,  Hewlett,  and  Hope 
have  written  an  official  account  of  their  im- 
pressions of  the  great  sevenpenny  question, 
and  it  appears  in  the  current  number  of  the 
Author.  It  is  amusing.  The  most  amusing 
aspect  of  the  whole  affair  is  the  mere  fact 
that    one    solitary    Scotch    firm.    Nelsons — 

*  All  baronets  or  knights  now,  except  Reginald  Smith,  who 
is  dead. 

130 


THE  SEVENPENNIES 

have  forced  the  mandarins,  nay,  the  arch-  ^p  Apr.  'op 
mandarins,  of  the  trade  to  cry  out  that  the 
shoe  is  pinching.  For  the  supreme  con- 
vention of  life  on  the  mandarinic  plane  is 
that  the  shoe  never  pinches.  The  publishers 
made  one  very  true  statement  to  the  authors, 
namely,  that  sevenpenny  editions  give  the 
public  the  impression  that  6s.  is  an  excessive 
price  for  a  novel.  Well,  it  is.  But  is  that 
a  reason  for  abolishing  the  sevenpenny? 
The  other  statements  of  the  publishers  were 
chiefly  absurd.  For  instance,  this:  "Any 
author  allowing  a  novel  to  be  sold  at  seven- 
pence  will  find  the  sales  of  his  next  book  at 
6s.  suffering  a  considerable  decrease."  Well, 
it  is  notorious  that  if  the  sevenpenny  pub- 
lishers are  publishing  one  particular  book 
just  now,  that  book  is  "  Kipps."  It  is 
equally  notorious  that  the  sales  of  "  Tono- 
Bungay "  are,  and  continue  to  be,  ex- 
tremely satisfactory. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  remarks  of  the 
sevenpenny  publishers  themselves  are  not 
undiverting.  I  have  heard  from  dozens  of 
people  in  the  trade  that  Messrs.  Nelson  could 
not  possibly  make  the  sevenpenny  reprint 
pay.  I  have  never  believed  the  statement. 
But  the  Shaw  and  Co.  report  makes  Messrs. 

131 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2p  Apr.  'op  Nelson  give  as  one  reason  for  not  abandoning 
the  sevenpenny  enterprise  the  fact  that 
"  the  machinery  already  in  existence  is  too 
costly  to  be  abandoned."  Which  involves 
the  novel  maxim  that  a  loss  may  be  too  big 
to  be  cut!  Were  their  amazing  factory  ten 
times  as  large  as  it  actually  is,  Messrs. 
Nelson  would  have  to  put  it  to  other  uses  in 
face  of  a  regular  loss  on  their  sevenpennies. 
However,  there  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that 
the  enterprise  is,  and  will  be,  remunerative. 
The  Shaw  and  Co.  report  is  of  the  same  view. 
Did  the  mandarins  imagine  that  they  were 
going  to  stop  the  sevenpenny,  that  anything 
could  stop  it?  I  suppose  they  did  I  More 
agreeably  comic  than  the  attitude  and 
arguments  of  the  publishers  are  the  attitude 
and  arguments  of  the  booksellers.  But 
the  largest  firms,  Smith  and  Son  and 
Wymans,  "  do  not  find  that  the  sevenpenny 
has  interfered  with  the  6s.  novel."  Be  it 
noted  that  Smith  and  Son  are  now  the 
largest  buyers  of  6s.  novels  in  England. 

<^ 
In  the  Shaw  and  Co.  report,  in  the  argu- 
ments of  publishers,  in  the  arguments  of 
booksellers,  not  a  word  about  the  interests 
of  the  consumer!  Yet  the  consumer  will 
settle  the  affair  ultimately.     That  the  price 

132 


THE  SEVENPENNIES 

of  new  novels  will  come  down  is  absolutely  ^p  Apr.  *og 

certain.     It  will  come   down   because   it   is 

ridiculous,    and   no   mandarinic    efforts   can 

keep  it  up.     In  the  process  of  readjustment 

many  people  will  temporarily  suffer,  and  a 

few  people  will  be  annihilated.     But  things 

are  what  they  are,  and  the  consequences  of 

them    will    be   what   they   will    be.      Why,  ^ 

therefore,   should  we  deceive  ourselves?     I 

quite  expect  to  suffer  myself.     I  shall  not, 

however,  complain  of  the  cosmic  movement. 

The  auctorial  report  (which,  by  the  way,  is 

full    of    common-sense)    envisages    immense 

changes  in  the  book-market.     I  agree.    And 

I  am  sure  that  these  changes  will  come  about 

in  the  teeth  of  violent  opposition  from  both 

publishers  and  booksellers.     The  book-mar-  . 

ket    is    growing    steadily.      It    is    enormous 

compared  to  what  it  used  to  be.    And  yet  it 

is  only  in  its  infancy.     The  inhabitants  of 

this   country   have    scarcely   even   begun    to 

buy  books.    Wait  a  few  years  and  you  will 

seel 


133 


MEREDITH 

27  May  'op  The  death  of  George  Meredith  removes, 
not  the  last  of  the  Victorian  novelists,  but 
the  first  of  the  modern  school.  He  was 
almost  the  first  English  novelist  whose 
work  reflected  an  intelligent  interest  in  the 
art  which  he  practised;  and  he  was  cer- 
tainly the  first  since  Scott  who  was  really 
a  literary  man.  Even  Scott  was  more  of  an 
antiquary  than  a  man  of  letters — apart  from 
his  work.  Can  one  think  of  Dickens  as  a 
man  of  letters,  as  one  who  cared  for  books,  as 
one  whose  notions  on  literature  were  worth 
twopence?  And  Thackeray's  opinions  on 
contemporary  and  preceding  writers  con- 
.  demn  him  past  hope  of  forgiveness.  Thack- 
eray was  in  Paris  during  the  most  productive 
years  of  French  fiction,  the  sublime  decade 
of  Balzac,  Stendhal,  and  Victor  Hugo.  And 
his  Paris  sketchbook  proves  that  his  atti- 
tude towards  the  marvels  by  which  he  was 
surrounded  was  the  attitude  of  a  clubman. 
These  men  wrote;  they  got  through  their 
writing  as  quickly  as  they  could;  and 
during  the  rest  of  the  day  they  were  club- 
men, or  hosts,  or  guests.  Trollope,  who 
dashed  off  his  literary  work  with  a  watch  in 
front  of  him  before  8.30  of  a  morning,  who 

134 


MEREDITH 

hunted  three  days  a  week,  dined  out  27  May  'op 
enormously,  and  gave  his  best  hours  to 
fighting  Rowland  Hill  in  the  Post  Office, — 
Trollope  merely  carried  to  its  logical  con- 
clusion the  principle  of  his  mightier  rivals. 
What  was  the  matter  with  all  of  them,  after 
a  holy  fear  of  their  publics,  was  simple 
ignorance.  George  Eliot  was  not  ignorant. 
Her  mind  was  more  distinguished  than  the 
minds  of  the  great  three.  But  she  was  too 
preoccupied  by  moral  questions  to  be  a 
first-class  creative  artist.  And  she  was  a 
woman.  A  woman,  at  that  epoch,  dared 
not  write  an  entirely  honest  novel  1  Nor  a 
man  either  1  Between  Fielding  and  Meredith 
no  entirely  honest  novel  was  written  by 
anybody  in  England.  The  fear  of  the 
public,  the  lust  of  popularity,  feminine 
prudery,  sentimentalism,  Victorian  niceness, 
— one  or  other  of  these  things  prevented 
honesty. 

In  "  Richard  Feverel,"  what  a  loosening 
of  the  bonds!  What  a  renaissance  1  Nobody 
since  Fielding  would  have  ventured  to  write 
the  Star  and  Garter  chapter  in  "  Richard 
Feverel."  It  was  the  announcer  of  a  sort 
of  dawn.  But  there  are  fearful  faults  in 
"  Richard  Feverel."     The  book  is  sicklied 

135 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2y  May  '09  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  the  excellent 
Charlotte  M.  Yonge.  The  large  construc- 
tional lines  of  it  are  bad.  The  separation  of 
Lucy  and  Richard  is  never  explained,  and 
cannot  be  explained.  The  whole  business  of 
Sir  Julius  is  grotesque.  And  the  conclusion 
is  quite  arbitrary.  It  is  a  weak  book,  full 
of  episodic  power  and  overloaded  with  wit. 
"  Diana  of  the  Crossways "  is  even  worse. 
I  am  still  awaiting  from  some  ardent 
Meredithian  an  explanation  of  Diana's  mar- 
riage that  does  not  insult  my  intelligence. 
Nor  is  "  One  of  our  Conquerors "  very  good. 
I  read  it  again  recently,  and  was  sad.  In 
my  view,  "  The  Egoist "  and  "  Rhoda 
Fleming  "  are  the  best  of  the  novels,  and  I 
don't  know  that  I  prefer  one  to  the  other. 
The  later  ought  to  have  been  called  *'  Dahlia 
Fleming,"  and  not  "  Rhoda."  When  one 
thinks  of  the  rich  colour,  the  variety,  the 
breadth,  the  constant  intellectual  distinc- 
tion, the  sheer  brilliant  power  of  novels 
such  as  these,  one  perceives  that  a  "  great 
Victorian "  could  only  have  succeeded  in 
an  age  when  all  the  arts  were  at  their 
lowest  ebb  in  England,  and  the  most 
middling  of  the  middle-classes  ruled  with 
the  Bible  in  one  hand  and  the  Riot  Act  in 
the  other. 

136 


MEREDITH 

Meredith  was  an  uncompromizing  Radical,  2j  May  'og 
and — what  is  singular — he  remained  so  in  his 
old  age.  He  called  Mr.  Joseph  Chamber- 
lain's nose  '  adventurous  '  at  a  time  when  Mr. 
Joseph  Chamberlain's  nose  had  the  ineffable 
majesty  of  the  Queen  of  Spain's  leg.  And 
the  Pall  Mall  haughtily  rebuked  him.  A 
spectacle  for  history!  He  said  aloud  in  a 
ball-room  that  Guy  de  Maupassant  was  the 
greatest  novelist  that  ever  lived.  To  think 
so  was  not  strange;  but  to  say  it  aloud! 
No  wonder  this  temperament  had  to  wait  for 
recognition.  Well,  Meredith  has  never  had 
proper  recognition;  and  won't  have  yet. 
To  be  appreciated  by  a  handful  of  writers, 
gushed  over  by  a  little  crowd  of  thoughtful 
young  women,  and  kept  on  a  shelf  uncut  by 
ten  thousand  persons  determined  to  be  in 
the  movement — that  is  not  appreciation. 
He  has  not  even  been  appreciated  as  much 
as  Thomas  Hardy,  though  he  is  a  less  fine 
novelist.  I  do  not  assert  that  he  is  a  less 
fine  writer.  For  his  poems  are  as  superior 
to  the  verses  of  Thomas  Hardy  as  "  The 
Mayor  of  Casterbridge "  is  superior  to 
"  The  Egoist."  (Never  in  English  prose 
literature  was  such  a  seer  of  beauty  as 
Thomas  Hardy.)  The  volume  of  Meredith's 
verse  is  small,  but  there  are  things  in  it  that 

137 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

27  May  'op  one  would  like  to  have  written.  And  it  is  all 
so  fine,  so  acute,  so  alert,  courageous,  and 
immoderate. 

A  member  of  the  firm  which  has  the 
honour  of  publishing  Meredith's  novels  was 
interviewed  by  the  Daily  Mail  on  the  day 
after  his  death.  The  gentleman  interviewed 
gave  vent  to  the  usual  insolence  about  our 
own  times.  "  He  belonged,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, "  to  a  very  different  age  from  the 
modern  writer — an  age  before  the  literary 
agent;  and  with  Mr.  Meredith  the  feeling  of 
intimacy  as  between  author  and  publisher — 
the  feeling  that  gave  to  publishing  as  it  was 
its  charm — was  always  existent."  Charm, — 
yes,  for  the  publisher.  The  secret  history  of 
the  publishing  of  Meredith's  earlier  books 
(long  before  Constables  had  ever  dreamed 
of  publishing  him)  is  more  than  curious.  I 
have  heard  some  details  of  it.  My  only 
wonder  is  that  human  ingenuity  did  not 
invent  literary  agents  forty  years  ago. 
Then  the  person  interviewed  went  grandly 
on:  "In  his  manner  of  writing  the  great 
novelist  was  very  different  from  the  modern 
fashion.  He  wrote  with  such  care  that 
judged  by  modern  standards  he  would  be 
considered  a  trifle  slow."    Tut-tut  I    It  may 

138 


MEREDITH 

interest  the  gentleman  interviewed  to  learn  zy  May  'og 

that  no  modern  writer  would  dare  to  produce 

work  at  the  rate  at  which  Scott,   Dickens, 

Trollope  and  Thackeray  produced  it  when 

their  prices  were  at  their  highest.    The  rate 

of  production  has  most  decidedly  declined, 

and    upon    the    whole    novels    are    written 

with  more  care  now  than  ever  they  were. 

I  should  doubt  if  any  novel  was  written  at 

greater    speed    than    the    greatest    realistic 

novel  in  the  world,  Richardson's  "  Clarissa," 

which  is  eight  or  ten  times  the  length  of  an 

average    novel    by    Mrs.    Humphry    Ward. 

"  Mademoiselle  de  Maupin  "  was  done  in  six 

weeks.      Scott's   careless    dash   is    notorious. 

And  both  Dickens  and  Thackeray  were  in 

such  a  hurry  that  they  would  often  begin  to 

print    before    they    had    finished    writing. 

Publishers  who  pride  themselves  on  the  old 

charming     personal     relations     with     great 

authors    ought   not    to    be    so    ignorant    of 

literary     history     as     the     gentleman     who 

unpacked  his  heart  to  a  sympathetic  Daily 

Mail. 


139 


ST.  JOHN  HANKIN 

I  July  'og  I  WAS  discussing  last  week  the  insufficiency 
of  the  supply  of  intelligent  playwrights  for 
the  presumable  demand  of  the  two  new 
repertory  theatres;  and,  almost  as  I  spoke, 
St.  John  Hankin  drowned  himself.  The 
loss  is  sensible.  I  do  not  consider  St.  John 
Hankin  to  have  been  a  great  dramatist;  I 
should  scarcely  care  to  say  that  he  was  a 
distinguished  dramatist,  though,  of  course, 
the  least  of  his  works  is  infinitely  more 
important  in  the  development  of  the  English 
theatre  than  the  biggest  of  the  creaking 
contrivances  for  which  Sir  Arthur  Wing 
Pinero  has  recently  received  honour  from 
a  grateful  and  cultured  Government.  But 
he  was  a  curious,  honest,  and  original 
dramatist,  with  a  considerable  equipment 
of  wit  and  of  skill.  The  unconsciously 
grotesque  condescension  which  he  received 
in  the  criticisms  of  Mr.  William  Archer,  and 
the  mere  insolence  which  he  had  to  tolerate 
in  the  criticisms  of  Mr.  A.  B.  Walkley,  were 
demonstrations  of  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
genuine  writer.  What  he  lacked  was  crea- 
tive energy.  He  could  interest  but  he  could 
not  powerfully  grip  you.  His  most  precious 
quality — particularly  precious  in  England — 

140 


ST.  JOHN  HANKIN 

was  his  calm  intellectual  curiosity,  his  i  July  'oq 
perfect  absence  of  fear  at  the  logical  con- 
sequences of  an  argument.  He  would  fol- 
low an  argument  anywhere.  He  was  not 
one  of  those  wretched  poltroons  who  say: 
"  But  if  I  admit  x  to  be  true,  I  am  doing 
away  with  the  incentive  to  righteousness. 
Therefore  I  shall  not  admit  x  to  be  true." 
There  are  thousands  of  these  highly  educated 
poltroons  between  St.  Stephen's  Westminster 
and  Aberystwith  University,  and  St.  John 
Hankin  was  their  foe. 

The  last  time  I  conversed  with  him  was  at 
the  dress  rehearsal  of  a  comedy.  Between 
the  sloppy  sounds  of  charwomen  washing 
the  floor  of  the  pit  and  the  feverish  cries  of 
photographers  taking  photographs  on  the 
stage,  we  discussed  the  plays  of  Tchekhofif 
and  other  things.  He  was  one  of  the  few 
men  in  England  who  had  ever  heard  of 
Tchekhoff's  plays.  When  I  asked  him  in 
what  edition  he  had  obtained  them,  he 
replied  that  he  had  read  them  in  manu- 
script. I  have  little  doubt  that  one  day 
these  plays  will  be  performed  in  England. 
St.  John  Hankin  was  an  exceedingly  good 
talker,  rather  elaborate  in  the  construction 
of   his  phrases,   and   occasionally   dandiacal 

141 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

I  July  *og  in  his  choice  of  words.  One  does  not  arrive 
at  his  skill  in  conversation  without  taking 
thought,  and  he  must  have  devoted  a  lot 
of  thought  to  the  art  of  talking.  Hence  he 
talked  self-consciously,  fully  aware  all  the 
time  that  talking  was  an  art  and  himself  an 
artist.  Beneath  the  somewhat  finicking 
manner  there  was  visible  the  intelligence 
that  cared  for  neither  conventions  nor 
traditions,  nor  for  possible  inconvenient 
results,  but  solely  for  intellectual  honesty 
amid  conditions  of  intellectual  freedom. 


142 


UNCLEAN  BOOKS 

The  Rev.  Dr.  W.  F.  Barry,  himself  a  8  July  '09 
novelist,  has  set  about  to  belabour  novelists, 
and  to  enliven  the  end  of  a  dull  season,  in  a 
highly  explosive  article  concerning  "  the 
plague  of  unclean  books,  and  especially  of 
dangerous  fiction."  He  says :  "  I  never 
leave  my  house  to  journey  in  any  direction, 
but  I  am  forced  to  see,  and  solicited  to 
buy,  works  flamingly  advertised  of  which  the 
gospel  is  adultery  and  the  apocalypse  the 
right  of  suicide."  (No!  I  am  not  parodying 
Dr.  Barry.  I  am  quoting  from  his  article, 
which  may  be  read  in  the  Bookman.  It 
ought  to  have  appeared  in  Punch.)  One 
naturally  asks  oneself:  "What  is  the  geo- 
graphical situation  of  this  house  of  Dr. 
Barry's,  hemmed  in  by  flaming  and  immoral 
advertisements  and  by  soliciting  sellers  of 
naughtiness?"  Dr.  Barry  probably  expects 
to  be  taken  seriously.  But  he  will  never  be 
taken  seriously  until  he  descends  from 
purple  generalities  to  the  particular  naming 
of  names.  If  he  has  the  courage  of  his 
opinions,  if  he  genuinely  is  concerned  for  the 
future  of  this  unfortunate  island,  he  might 
name  a  dozen  or  so  of  the  "  myriad  volumes 
which  deride  self-control,  scofi  at  the  God- 

143 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

'8  July  'op  like  in  man,  deny  the  judgment,  and  by  most 
potent  illustration  declare  that  death  ends 
all."  For  myself,  I  am  unacquainted  with 
them,  and  nobody  has  ever  solicited  me  to 
buy  them.  At  least  he  might  state  where 
one  is  solicited  to  buy  these  shockers.  I 
would  go  thither  at  once,  just  to  see.  In  the 
course  of  his  article,  Dr.  Barry  lets  slip  a 
phrase  about  "  half-empty  churches."  Of 
course,  these  half-empty  churches  must  be 
laid  on  the  back  of  somebody,  and  the 
novelist's  back  is  always  convenient.  Hence, 
no  doubt,  the  article.  Dr.  Barry  seeks  for 
information.  He  asks :  "  Will  Christian 
fathers  and  mothers  go  on  tolerating  .  .  .  ," 
etc.,  etc.  I  can  oblige  him.  The  answer 
is,  "  Yes.    They  will." 


144 


LOVE  POETRY 

In  every  number  up  to  August,  I  think,  i6  Sep.  'op 
the  summary  of  the  English  Review  began 
with  "  Modern  Poetry,"  a  proper  and 
necessary  formal  recognition  of  the  suprem- 
acy of  verse.  But  in  the  current  issue 
"  Modern  Poetry "  is  put  after  a  "  study " 
of  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  by 
Max  Beerbohm.  A  trifling  change!  editori- 
ally speaking,  perhaps  an  unavoidable 
change!  And  yet  it  is  one  of  these  nothings 
which  are  noticed  by  those  who  notice  such 
nothings.  Among  the  poets,  some  of  them 
fairly  new  discoveries,  whom  the  English 
Review  has  printed,  is  "  J.  Marjoram."  I 
do  not  know  what  individuality  the  name 
of  J.  Marjoram  conceals,  but  it  is  certainly 
a  pseudonym.  Some  time  ago  J.  Marjoram 
published  a  volume  of  verse  entitled  "  Re- 
pose "  (Alston  Rivers),  and  now  Duckworth 
has  published  his  "  New  Poems."  The 
volume  is  agreeable  and  provocative.  It 
contains  a  poem  called  "  Afternoon  Tea," 
which  readers  of  the  English  Review  will 
remember.  I  do  not  particularly  care  for 
"  Afternoon  Tea."  I  find  the  contrast 
between  the  outcry  of  a  deep  passion  and  the 
chatter    of    the    tea    merely    melodramatic, 

H5 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i6  Sep.  'op  instead  of  impressive.  And  I  object  to  the 
idiom  in  which  the  passion  is  expressed. 
For  example: 

To  prove  I  mean  love,  I'd  hum  in  Hell. 

Or: 

You  touch  the  cup 
With  one  slim  finger.  .  .  .  I'll  drink  it  up, 
Though  it  be  blood. 

We  are  all  quite  certain  that  the  lover 
would  not  willingly  burn  in  Hell  to  prove  his 
love,  and  that  if  he  drank  blood  he  would  be 
sick.  The  idiom  is  outworn.  That  J.  Mar- 
joram should  employ  it  is  a  sign,  among 
others,  that  he  has  not  yet  quite  got  over  the 
"  devout  lover "  stage  in  his  mood  towards 
women.  He  makes  a  pin  say:  "  She 
dropped  me,  pity  my  despair!"  which  is  in 
the  worst  tradition  of  Westminster  Gazette 
"  Occ.  Verse."  He  is  somewhat  too  much 
occupied  with  this  attitudinization  before 
women  or  the  memory  of  women.  It  has 
about  as  much  to  do  with  the  reality  of 
sexual  companionship  as  the  Lord  Mayor's 
procession  has  to  do  with  the  municipal  life 
of  Greater  London.  Still,  J.  Marjoram  is  a 
genuine  poet.  In  "  Fantasy  of  the  Sick 
Bed,"  the  principal  poem  in  the  book,  there 

146 


LOVE  POETRY 

are  some  really  beautiful  passages.  I  would  i6  Sep.  '09 
say  to  him,  and  I  would  say  to  all  young 
poets,  because  I  feel  it  deeply:  Do  not  be 
afraid  of  your  raw  material,  especially  in 
the  relations  between  men  and  women.  J. 
Marjoram  well  and  epigrammatically  writes: 

Yet  who  despizeth  Love 
As  little  and  incomplete 
Learns  by  losing  Love 
How  it  was  sweet! 

True.  But,  when  applied  to  love  with  a 
capital  L,  and  to  dropped  pins  despairing, 
a  little  sane  realistic  disdain  will  not  be 
amiss,  particularly  in  this  isle.  I  want  to 
see  the  rise  of  a  new  school  of  love  poetry 
in  England.     And  I  believe  I  shall  see  it. 


147 


TROLLOPE'S  METHODS 

23  Sep.  'op  I  AM  reminded  of  Anthony  Trollope  and 
a  recent  article  on  him,  in  the  Times,  which 
was  somewhat  below  the  high  level  of  the 
Times  literary  criticism.  Said  the  Times: 
"  Anthony  Trollope  died  in  the  December  of 
1882,  and  in  the  following  year  a  fatal, 
perhaps  an  irreparable,  blow  to  his  reputa- 
tion was  struck  by  the  publication  of  his 
autobiography."  The  conceit  of  a  blow 
which  in  addition  to  being  fatal  is  perhaps 
also  irreparable  is  diverting.  But  that  is  not 
my  point.  What  the  Times  objects  to  in 
the  Autobiography  is  the  revelation  of  the 
clock-work  methods  by  which  Trollope 
wrote  his  novels.  It  appears  that  this 
horrid  secret  ought  to  have  been  for  ever 
concealed.  "Fatal  admission!"  exclaims 
the  Times.  Fatal  fiddlesticks!  Trollope 
said  much  more  than  the  Times  quotes.  He 
confessed  that  he  wrote  with  a  watch  in 
front  of  him,  and  obliged  himself  to  produce 
250  words  every  quarter  of  an  hour.  And 
what  then?  How  can  the  confession  affect 
his  reputation?  His  reputation  rests  on  the 
value  of  his  novels,  and  not  in  the  least  on  the 
manner  in  which  he  chose  to  write  them. 
And   his    reputation    is   secure.     Moreover, 

148 


TROLLOPE'S  METHODS 

there  is  no  reason  why  great  literature  should  23  Sep.  '09 
not  be  produced  to  time,  with  a  watch  on  the 
desk.  Persons  who  chatter  about  the  ne- 
cessity of  awaiting  inspirational  hypers- 
thenia  don't  know  what  the  business  of 
being  an  artist  is.  They  have  only  read 
about  it  sentimentally.  The  whole  argu- 
ment is  preposterous,  and  withal  extraor- 
dinarily Victorian.  And  even  assuming 
that  the  truth  would  deal  a  fatal  blow,  etc., 
is  that  a  reason  for  hiding  it?  Another 
strange  sentence  is  this :  "  The  wonder  is, 
not  that  TroUope's  novels  are  '  readable,'  but 
that,  being  readable,  they  are  yet  so  closely 
packed  with  that  true  realism  without 
which  any  picture  of  life  is  lifeless."  (My 
italics.)  I  ask  myself  what  quality,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  Times  writer,  chiefly  makes 
for  readableness. 


149 


CHESTERTON  AND  LUCAS 

7  Oct.  '09  Two  books  of  essays  on  the  same  day  from 
the  same  firm,  "  One  Day  and  Another,"  by 
E.  V.  Lucas,  and  "  Tremendous  Trifles,"  by 
G.  K.  Chesterton!  Messrs.  Methuen  put  the 
volumes  together  and  advertised  them  as 
being  "  uniform  in  size  and  appearance."  I 
do  not  know  why.  They  are  uniform  neither 
in  size  nor  in  appearance;  but  only  in  price, 
costing  a  crown  apiece.  "  Tremendous 
Trifles "  has  given  me  a  wholesome  shock. 
Its  contents  are  all  reprinted  from  the 
Daily  News.  In  some  ways  they  are  sheer 
and  rank  journalism;  they  are  often  almost 
Harmsworthian  in  their  unscrupulous  sim- 
plifying of  the  facts  of  a  case,  in  their  crude 
determination  to  emphasize  one  fact  at  the 
expense  of  every  other  fact.  Thus :  "  No 
one  can  understand  Paris  and  its  history 
who  does  not  understand  that  its  fierceness 
is  the  balance  and  justification  of  its 
frivolity."  So  there  you  are!  If  you  don't 
accept  that  you  are  damned;  the  Chesterton 
guillotine  has  clicked  on  you.  Perhaps  I 
have  lived  in  Paris  more  years  than  Mr. 
Chesterton  has  lived  in  it  months,  but  it  has 
not  yet  happened  to  me  to  understand  that 
its  fierceness  is  the  balance  and  justification 

150 


CHESTERTON  AND  LUCAS 

of  its  frivolity.  Hence  I  am  undone;  I  no  7  Oct.  'og 
longer  exist!  Again,  of  Brussels:  "It  has 
none  of  the  things  which  make  good  French- 
men love  Paris;  it  has  only  the  things  which 
make  unspeakable  Englishmen  love  it." 
There  are  a  hundred  things  in  Brussels  that 
I  love,  and  I  find  Brussels  a  very  agreeable 
city.  Hence  I  am  an  unspeakable  English- 
man. Mr.  Chesterton's  book  is  blotched 
with  this  particular  form  of  curt  arrogance 
as  with  a  skin  complaint.  Happily  it  is  only 
a  skin  complaint.  More  serious  than  a  skin 
complaint  is  Mr.  Chesterton's  religious 
orthodoxy,  which  crops  up  at  intervals  and 
colours  the  book.  I  merely  voice  the 
opinion  of  the  intelligent  minority  (or 
majority)  of  Mr.  Chesterton's  readers  when 
I  say  that  his  championship  of  Christian 
dogma  sticks  in  my  throat.  In  my  opinion, 
at  this  time  of  day  it  is  absolutely  impossible 
for  a  young  man  with  a  first-class  intel- 
lectual apparatus  to  accept  any  form  of 
dogma,  ,and  I  am  therefore  forced  to  the 
conclusion  that  Mr.  Chesterton  has  not  got  a 
first-class  intellectual  apparatus.  (With  an 
older  man,  whose  central  ideas  were  defi- 
nitely formed  at  an  earlier  epoch,  the  case 
might  be  different.)  I  will  go  further  and 
say   that  it  is   impossible,   in   one's  private 

151 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

7  Oct.  'op  thoughts,  to  think  of  the  accepter  of  dogma 
as  an  intellectual  equal.  Not  all  Mr. 
Chesterton's  immense  cleverness  and  charm 
will  ever  erase  from  the  minds  of  his  best 
readers  this  impression — caused  by  his  mis- 
timed religious  dogmatism — that  there  is 
something  seriously  deficient  in  the  very 
basis  of  his  mind.  And  w^hat  his  cleverness 
and  charm  cannot  do  his  arrogance  and  his 
effrontery  assuredly  v^ill  not  do.  And  yet 
I  said  that  this  book  gave  me  a  wholesome 
shock.  Far  from  deteriorating,  Mr.  Chester- 
ton is  improving.  In  spite  of  the  awful 
tediousness  of  his  mannerism  of  antithetical 
epigram,  he  does  occasionally  write  finer 
epigrams  than  ever.  His  imagination  is 
stronger,  his  fancy  more  delicate,  and  his 
sense  of  beauty  widened.  There  are  things 
in  this  book  that  really  are  very  excellent 
indeed;  things  that,  if  they  die,  will  die 
hard.  For  example,  the  essay:  "  In  Topsy 
Turvy  Land."  It  is  a  book  which,  in  the 
main,  strongly  makes  for  righteousness.  Its 
minor  defects  are  scandalous,  in  a  literary 
sense;  its  central  defect  passes  the  compre- 
hension; the  book  is  journalism,  it  is  any- 
thing you  like.  But  I  can  tell  you  that  it  is 
literature,  after  all. 


152 


CHESTERTON  AND  LUCAS 

If  you  desire  a  book  entirely  free  from  the  7  Oct.  '09 
exasperating  faults  of  Mr.  Chesterton's  you 
will  turn  to  Mr.  Lucas's.  But  Mr.  Lucas, 
too,  is  a  highly  mysterious  man.  On  the 
surface  he  might  be  mistaken  for  a  mere 
cricket  enthusiast.  Dig  down,  and  you  will 
come,  with  not  too  much  difficulty,  to  the 
simple  man  of  letters.  Dig  further,  and, 
with  somewhat  more  difficulty,  you  will 
come  to  an  agreeably  ironic  critic  of  human 
foibles.  Try  to  dig  still  further,  and  you  will 
probably  encounter  rock.  Only  here  and 
there  in  his  two  novels  does  Mr.  Lucas  allow 
us  to  glimpse  a  certain  powerful  and  sar- 
donic harshness  in  him,  indicative  of  a  mind 
that  has  seen  the  world  and  irrevocably 
judged  it  in  most  of  its  manifestations.  I 
could  believe  that  Mr.  Lucas  is  an  ardent 
politician,  who,  however,  would  not  deign 
to  mention  his  passionately  held  views  save 
with  a  pencil  on  a  ballot-paper — if  then! 
It  could  not  have  been  without  intention 
that  he  put  first  in  this  new  book  an  essay 
describing  the  manufacture  of  a  professional 
criminal.  Most  of  the  other  essays  are 
exceedingly  light  in  texture.  They  leave 
no  loophole  for  criticism,  for  their  accom- 
plishment is  always  at  least  as  high  as  their 
ambition.      They    are    serenely   well    done. 

153 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

7  Oct.  'op  Immanent  in  the  book  is  the  calm  assurance 
of  a  man  perfectly  aware  that  it  will  be  a 
passing  hard  task  to  get  change  out  of  him/ 
And  even  when  someone  does  get  change  out 
of  him,  honour  is  always  saved.  In  describ- 
ing a  certain  over  of  his  own  bowling,  Mr. 
Lucas  says :  "  I  was  conscious  of  a  twinge 
as  I  saw  his  swift  glance  round  the  field. 
He  then  hit  my  first  ball  clean  out  of  it; 
from  my  second  he  made  two;  from  my 
third  another  two;  the  fourth  and  fifth 
wanted  playing;  and  the  sixth  he  hit  over 
my  head  among  some  distant  haymakers." 
You  see ;  the  fourth  and  fifth  wanted  playing. 


154 


OFFICIAL  RECOGNITION  OF 
POETRY 

I  DID  not  go  to  Paris  to  witness  the  fetes  14  Oct.  'op 
in  celebration  of  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of 
Victor  Hugo's  "  La  Legende  des  Siecles," 
but  I  happened  to  be  in  Paris  while  they 
were  afoot.  I  might  have  seen  one  of 
Hugo's  dramas  at  the  Theater  Frangais,  but 
I  avoided  this  experience,  my  admiration 
for  Hugo  being  tempered  after  the  manner  of 
M.  Andre  Gide's.  M.  Gide,  asked  with  a 
number  of  other  authors  to  say  who  was  still 
the  greatest  modern  French  poet,  replied: 
"Victor  Hugo — alas!"  So  I  chose  Brieux 
instead  of  Hugo,  and  saw  "  La  Robe  Rouge  " 
at  the  Frangais.  Brieux  is  now  not  only  an 
Academician,  but  one  of  the  stars  of  the 
Frangais.  A  bad  sign  I  A  bad  play,  studded 
with  good  things,  like  all  Brieux's  plays. 
(The  importance  attached  to  Brieux  by 
certain  of  the  elect  in  England  is  absurd. 
Bernard  Shaw  could  simply  eat  him  up — for 
he  belongs  to  the  vegetable  kingdom.)  A 
thoroughly  bad  performance,  studded  with 
fine  acting!  A  great  popular  success!  When- 
ever I  go  to  the  Frangais  I  tremble  at  the 
prospect  of  a  national  theatre  in  England. 
The   Frangais    is   hopeless — corrupt,    feeble, 

155 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

14  Oct.  'op  tedious,  reactionary,  fraudulent,  and  the 
laughing-stock  of  artists.  However,  we  have 
not  got  a  national  theatre  yet. 

Immediately  after  its  unveiling  I  gazed  in 
the  garden  of  the  Palais  Royal  at  Rodin's 
statue  of  Victor  Hugo.  I  thought  it  rather 
fine,  shadowed  on  the  north  and  on  the 
south  by  two  famous  serpentine  trees. 
Hugo,  in  a  state  of  nudity,  reclines  meditat- 
ing on  a  pile  of  rocks.  The  likeness  is  good, 
but  you  would  not  guess  from  the  statue 
that  for  many  years  Hugo  travelled  daily  on 
the  top  of  the  Clichy-Odeon  omnibus  and 
was  never  recognized  by  the  public.  Heaven 
knows  what  he  is  meditating  about!  Per- 
haps about  that  gushing  biography  of  him- 
self which  apparently  he  penned  with  his 
own  hand  and  published  under  another 
name!  For  he  was  a  weird  admixture  of 
qualities — like  most  of  us.  I  could  not 
help  meditating,  myself,  upon  the  really 
extraordinary  differences  between  France 
and  England.  Imagine  a  nude  statue  of 
Tennyson  in  St.  James's  Park!  You 
cannot!  But,  assuming  that  some  creative 
wit  had  contrived  to  get  a  nude  statue  of 
Tennyson  into  St.  James's  Park,  imagine  the 
enormous    shindy    that    would    occur,    the 

156 


RECOGNITION  OF  POETRY 

horror-stricken  Press  of  London,  the  deep  14  Oct.  '09 
pain  and  resentment  of  a  mighty  race! 
And  can  you  conceive  London  officially 
devoting  a  week  to  the  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  fifty  years  had  elapsed  since  the 
publication  of  a  work  of  poetic  genius! 
Yet  I  think  we  know  quite  as  much  about 
poetry  in  England  as  they  do  in  France. 
Still  less  conceivable  is  the  participation 
of  an  English  Government  in  such  an 
anniversary.  In  Paris  last  Thursday  a 
French  minister  stood  in  front  of  the  Hugo 
statue  and  thus  began:  "The  Government 
of  the  Republic  could  not  allow  the  fiftieth 
anniversary  of  the  '  Legend  of  the  Centuries ' 
to  be  celebrated  without  associating  itself 
with  the  events."  My  fancy  views  Mr. 
Herbert  John  Gladstone — yes,  him! — stand- 
ing discreetly  in  front  of  an  indiscreet 
marble  Wordsworth  and  asserting  that  the 
British  Government  had  no  intention  of 
being  left  out  of  the  national  rejoicings  about 
the  immortality  of  "The  Prelude"!  A 
spectacle  that  surely  Americans  would  pay 
to  see!  On  Sunday,  at  the  Frangais,  Hugo 
was  being  declaimed  from  one  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  till  midnight,  with  only  an  hour's 
interval.  And  it  rained  violently  nearly  all 
the  time. 

157 


ARTISTS  AND  CRITICS 

21  Oct.  'op  There  is  a  one-sided  feud  between  artists 
and  critics.  When  a  number  of  artists  are 
gathered  together  you  will  soon  in  the  con- 
versation come  upon  signs  of  that  feud.  I 
admit  that  the  general  attitude  of  artists  to 
critics  is  unfair.  They  expect  from  critics  an 
imaginative  comprehension  which  in  the 
nature  of  the  case  only  a  creative  artist  can 
possess.  On  the  other  hand,  a  creative 
artist  cannot  do  the  work  of  a  critic  because 
he  has  neither  the  time  nor  the  inclination  to 
master  the  necessary  critical  apparatus. 
Hence  critical  work  seldom  or  never  satisfies 
the  artist,  and  the  artist's  ideal  of  what 
critical  work  ought  to  be  is  an  impossible 
dream.  I  find  confirmation  of  my  view  in 
other  arts  than  my  own.  The  critical  work 
of  Mr.  Bernhard  Berenson,  for  instance, 
seems  to  me  wonderful  and  satisfying.  But 
when  I  mention  Mr.  Berenson  to  a  painter  I 
invariably  discover  that  that  painter's  secret 
attitude  towards  Mr.  Berenson  is — ^well, 
aristocratic.  The  finest,  and  the  only  first- 
rate,  criticism  is  produced  when,  by  an 
exceptional  accident,  a  creative  artist  of 
balanced  and  powerful  temperament  is 
moved  to  deal  exhaustively  with  a  subject. 

IS8 


ARTISTS  AND  CRITICS 

Among    standard    critical    works    the    one  21  Oct.  '09 

that    has    most    impressed    me    is    Lessing's 

"  Laocoon  " — at  any  rate  the  literary  parts 

of  it.    Here  (I  have  joyously  said  to  myself) 

is  somebody  who  knows  what  he  is  talking 

about.      Here    is    someone    who    has    been 

there. 


159 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

4  Nov.  '09  After  a  long  period  of  abstention  from 
Rudyard  Kipling,  I  have  just  read  "  Actions 
and  Reactions."  It  has  induced  gloom  in 
me;  yet  a  modified  gloom.  Nearly  a 
quarter  of  a  century  has  passed  since 
"Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills"  delighted 
first  Anglo-Indian,  and  then  English  society. 
There  was  nothing  of  permanent  value  in 
that  book,  and  in  my  extremest  youth  I 
never  imagined  otherwise.  But  "  The  Story 
of  the  Gadsbys "  impressed  me.  So  did 
"  Barrack-room  Ballads."  So  did  pieces  of 
"  Soldiers  Three."  So  did  "  Life's  Handi- 
cap "  and  "  Many  Inventions."  So  did 
"  The  Jungle  Book,"  despite  its  wild  natural 
history.  And  I  remember  my  eagerness  for 
the  publication  of  "  The  Seven  Seas."  I 
remember  going  early  in  the  morning  to 
Denny's  bookshop  to  buy  it.  I  remember  the 
crimson  piles  of  it  in  every  bookshop  in 
London.  And  I  remember  that  I  perused  it, 
gulped  it  down,  with  deep  joy.  And  I  re- 
member the  personal  anxiety  which  I  felt 
when  Kipling  lay  very  dangerously  ill  in 
New  York.  For  a  fortnight,  then,  Kipling's 
temperature  was  the  most  important  news 
of   the   day.      I    remember   giving    a   party 

160 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

with  a  programme  of  music,  in  that  fortnight,  4  Nov.  'op 
and  I  began  the  proceedings  by  reading 
aloud  the  programme,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
programme  instead  of  "  God  Save  the 
Queen,"  I  read,  "  God  Save  Kipling,"  and 
everybody  cheered.  "  Stalky  and  Co." 
cooled  me  and  "  Kim "  chilled  me.  At 
intervals,  since,  Kipling's  astounding  politi- 
cal manifestations,  chiefly  in  verse,  have 
shocked  and  angered  me.  As  time  has 
elapsed  it  has  become  more  and  more  clear 
that  his  output  v^as  sharply  divided  into  two 
parts  by  his  visit  to  New  York,  and  that  the 
second  half  is  inferior  in  quantity,  in  quality, 
in  everything,  to  the  first.  It  has  been  too 
plain  now  for  years  that  he  is  against 
progress,  that  he  is  the  shrill  champion  of 
things  that  are  rightly  doomed,  that  his 
vogue  among  the  hordes  of  the  respectable 
was  due  to  political  reasons,  and  that  he 
retains  his  authority  over  the  said  hordes 
because  he  is  the  bard  of  their  prejudices 
and  of  their  clayey  ideals.  A  democrat  of 
ten  times  Kipling's  gift  and  power  could 
never  have  charmed  and  held  the  governing 
classes  as  Kipling  has  done.  Nevertheless,  I 
for  one  cannot,  except  in  anger,  go  back  on  a 
genuine  admiration.  I  cannot  forget  a 
benefit.    If  in  quick  resentment  I  have  ever 

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BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Nov.  'oQ  written  of  Kipling  with  less  than  the 
respect  which  is  eternally  due  to  an  artist 
who  has  once  excited  in  the  heart  a  generous 
and  beautiful  emotion,  and  has  remained 
honest,  I  regret  it.  And  this  is  to  be  said: 
at  his  worst  Kipling  is  an  honest  and  pains- 
taking artist.  No  work  of  his  but  has 
obviously  been  lingered  over  with  a  crafts- 
man's devotion!  He  has  never  spoken  when 
he  had  nothing  to  say — though  probably  no 
artist  was  ever  more  seductively  tempted  by 
publishers  and  editors  to  do  so.  And  he  has 
done  more  than  shun  notoriety — ^Miss  Marie 
Corelli  does  that — he  has  succeeded  in 
avoiding  it. 

The  first  story,  and  the  best,  in  "  Actions 
and  Reactions,"  is  entitled  "  An  Habitation 
Enforced,"  and  it  displays  the  amused  but 
genuine  awe  of  a  couple  of  decent  rich 
Americans  confronted  by  the  saccular  won- 
ders of  the  English  land  system.  It  depends 
for  its  sharp  point  on  a  terrific  coincidence, 
as  do  many  of  Kipling's  tales,  for  instance, 
"  The  Man  Who  Was,"  the  mere  chance 
that  these  Americans  should  tumble  upon 
the  very  ground  and  estate  that  had 
belonged  to  the  English  ancestors  of  one  of 
them.     It  is  written  in  a  curiously  tortured 

162 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

idiom,  largely  borrowed  from  the  Bible,  and  4  Nov.  'op 
all  the  characters  are  continually  given  to 
verbal  smartness  or  peculiarity  of  one  kind 
or  another.  The  characters  are  not  indi- 
vidualized. Each  is  a  type,  smoothed  out  by 
sentimental  handling  into  something  meant 
to  be  sympathetic.  Moreover,  the  real 
difficulties  of  the  narrative  are  consistently, 
though  I  believe  unconsciously,  shirked. 
The  result,  if  speciously  pretty,  is  not  a  bit 
convincing.  But  the  gravest,  and  the  en- 
tirely fatal  fault,  is  the  painting  of  the 
English  land  system.  To  read  this  story  one 
could  never  guess  that  the  English  land  sys- 
tem is  not  absolutely  ideal,  that  tenants  and 
hereditary  owners  do  not  live  always  in  a  de- 
lightful patriarchal  relation,  content.  There 
are  no  shadows  whatever.  The  English  land 
system  is  perfect,  and  no  accusation  could 
possibly  be  breathed  against  it.  And  the 
worst  is  that  for  Kipling  the  English  land 
system  probably  is  perfect.  He  is  incapable 
of  perceiving  that  it  can  be  otherwise.  He 
would  not  desire  it  to  be  otherwise.  His 
sentimentalization  of  it  is  gross — there  is  no 
other  word — and  at  bottom  the  story  is  as 
wildly  untrue  to  life  as  the  most  arrant 
Sunday-school  prize  ever  published  by  the 
Religious  Tract  Society.    Let  it  be  admitted 

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BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Nov.  'op  that  the  romantic,  fine  side  of  the  English 
land  system  is  rendered  with  distinction  and 
effectiveness;  and  that  the  puzzled,  un- 
willing admiration  of  the  Americans  is  well 
done,  though  less  well  than  in  a  somewhat 
similar  earlier  story,  "  An  Error  in  the 
Fourth  Dimension." 

An  example  of  another  familiar  aspect  of 
Kipling  is  "With  the  Night  Mail."  This 
is  a  story  of  2000  A.D.,  and  describes  the 
crossing  of  the  Atlantic  by  the  aerial  mail. 
It  is  a  glittering  essay  in  the  sham-technical; 
and  real  imagination,  together  with  a  tre- 
mendous play  of  fancy,  is  shown  in  the 
invention  of  illustrative  detail.  But  the 
whole  effort  is  centred  on  the  mechanics 
of  the  affair.  Human  evolution  has  stood 
stock-still  save  in  the  department  of  en- 
gineering. The  men  are  exactly  the  same 
semi-divine  civil  service  men  that  sit  equal 
with  British  military  and  naval  officers  on 
the  highest  throne  in  the  kingdom  of  Kip- 
ling's esteem.  Nothing  interests  him  but 
the  mechanics  and  the  bureaucratic  organi- 
zation and  the  esprit  de  corps.  Nor  does  he 
conceive  that  the  current  psychology  of  rul- 
ing and  managing  the  earth  will  ever  be 
modified.     His   simplicity,   his   naivete,   his 

164 


RUDYARD  KIPLING 

enthusiasms,  his  prejudices,  his  blindness,  and  '4  '^ov.  'op 
his  vanities  are  those  of  Stalky.  And,  after 
all,  even  the  efifect  he  aims  at  is  not  got.  It 
is  nearly  got,  but  never  quite.  There  is  a 
tireless  effort,  but  the  effort  is  too  plain  and 
fatigues  the  reader,  forcing  him  to  share  it. 
A  thin  powder  of  dullness  lies  everywhere. 


When  I  had  read  these  stories,  I  took  out 
"  Life's  Handicap,"  and  tasted  again  the 
flavour  of  "  On  Greenhow  Hill,"  which  I 
have  always  considered  to  be  among  the 
very  best  of  Kipling's  stories.  It  would  be 
too  much  to  say  that  I  liked  it  as  well  as  ever. 
I  did  not  Time  has  staled  it.  The  author's 
constitutional  sentimentality  has  corroded 
it  in  parts.  But  it  is  still  a  very  impressive 
and  a  fundamentally  true  thing.  It  was 
done  in  the  rich  flush  of  power,  long  before 
its  creator  had  even  suspected  his  hidden 
weaknesses,  long  before  his  implacable 
limitations  had  begun  to  compel  him  to 
imitate  himself.  It  was  done  in  the  days 
when  he  could  throw  off  exquisite  jewels  like 
this,  to  deck  the  tale: 

To  Lovers  low  voice  she  lent  a  careless  ear; 
Her  hand  within  his  rosy  fingers  lay, 
lbs 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Nov.  'op   d  chilling  weight.    She  would  not  turn  or 

hear; 
But  with  averted  face  went  on  her  way. 
But   when   pale   Death,   all  featureless   and 

grim, 
Lifted  his  bony  hand,  and  beckoning 
Held   out   his   cypress-wreath,  she   followed 

him. 
And  Love  was  left  forlorn  and  wondering. 
That  she  who  for  his  bidding  would  not  stay, 
At  Death's  first  whisper  rose  and  went  away. 


i66 


CENSORSHIP  BY  THE 
LIBRARIES 

The  immediate  origin  of  the  new  attempt  2^  Dec.  '09 
by  the  libraries  to  exercise  a  censorship  over 
books,  and  particularly  over  novels,  is 
quite  accidental  and  silly.  A  woman  socially 
prominent  in  the  governing  classes  of  this 
realm  has  a  daughter.  The  daughter  ob- 
tained and  read  a  certain  book  from  the 
circulating  library.  (Naturally  the  family 
is  one  of  those  that  are  too  rich  to  buy  books ; 
it  can  only  hire.)  The  mother  chanced  to 
see  the  book,  and  considered  it  to  be  highly 
improper.  (I  have  not  read  the  book,  but  I 
should  say  that  it  is  probably  not  improper 
at  all;  merely  a  trivial,  foolish  book.) 
The  woman  went  direct  to  an  extremely 
exalted  member  of  the  Cabinet,  being  a 
friend  of  his;  and  she  kicked  up  a  tre- 
mendous storm  and  dust.  The  result  was 
that  "  certain  machinery "  was  set  in 
motion,  and  "  certain  representations "  were 
made  to  the  libraries;  indeed,  the  libraries 
were  given  to  understand  that  unless  they 
did  something  themselves  "  certain  steps " 
would  be  taken.  It  was  all  very  vague  and 
impressive,  and  it  brought  recent  agitations 
to    a   head.      Hence    the    manifesto    of    the 

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BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2s  Dec.  'op  libraries,  in  which  they  announce  that  all 
books  must  be  submitted  in  advance  to  a 
committee  of  hiring  experts,  and  that  the 
submitted  books  will  be  divided  into  three 
classes.  The  first  class  will  be  absolutely- 
banned;  the  circulation  of  the  second  will 
be  prevented  so  far  as  it  can  be  prevented 
without  the  ban  absolute;  and  the  circula- 
tion of  the  third  will  be  permitted  without 
restrictions. 

Of  course,  that  even  the  suggestion  of  a 
censorship  should  spring  from  such  a  per- 
sonal and  trifling  cause  is  very  scandalous. 
But  I  am  fairly  sure  that  it  might  happen 
under  any  Government  and  under  any  form 
of  Government.  All  Governments  must 
consist  of  individual  members,  and  all  indi- 
vidual members  have  friends.  Most  of  them 
are  acquainted  with  women,  and  with  ab- 
surd women,  who  will  utilize  the  acquain- 
tanceship with  all  their  might  for  their  own 
personal  ends.  And  exceedingly  few  mem- 
bers of  any  Government  whatsoever  would 
have  the  courage  to  tell  a  well-dressed  and 
arrogant  woman  to  go  to  the  devil,  even 
when  that  answer  happened  to  be  the  sole 
correct  answer  to  an  impertinence.  Welling- 
ton merely  damned  the  portly  darlings,  but 

1 68 


CENSORSHIP  BY  THE  LIBRARIES 

then  Wellington,   though  preposterous  as   a  23  Dec  '09 
politician,  was  a  great  man. 

The  menacing  letter  from  the  Libraries 
was  received  by  the  Publishers  on  the  very 
day  of  their  Council  meeting.  This  may  or 
may  not  have  been  accidental,  but  at  any 
rate  it  put  the  Publishers  at  a  disadvantage. 
The  Council  meetings  of  the  Publishers' 
Association,  being  dominated  by  knights 
and  other  mandarins,  are  apt  to  be  formal 
and  majestic  in  character.  You  can't  blurt 
dut  whatever  comes  into  your  head  at  a 
Council  meeting  of  the  Publishers'  Associa- 
tion. And  nearly  everybody  is  afraid  of 
everybody  else.  No  one  had  had  time  to 
think  the  matter  over,  much  less  to  decide 
whether  surrender  or  defiance  would  pay 
best  or  look  best.  Consequently  the  reply 
sent  to  the  Libraries  was  a  masterpiece  of 
futility.  The  mildly  surprising  thing  is 
that,  in  the  Council  itself,  there  was  a  strong 
pro-Library  party.  Among  this  party  were 
Messrs.  Hutchinson  and  Mr.  Heinemann. 
Messrs.  Hutchinson,  it  is  well  known,  have 
consistently  for  many  years  tried  to  publish 
only  novels  for  "  family  reading."  It  is  an 
ambition,  like  another.  And  one  may  admit 
that   Messrs.    Hutchinson    have    fairly   well 

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BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2s  Dec.  'op  succeeded  in  it.  Mr.  Heinemann  issues  as 
much  really  high-class  literature  as  any 
publisher  in  London,  but  if  his  policy  has 
had  a  "  family  and  young  lady "  tendency, 
that  tendency  has  escaped  me.  He  has 
published  books  (some  of  them  admirable 
works,  and  some  not)  which  a  committee  of 
hiring  experts  would  have  rejected  with 
unanimous  enthusiasm.  It  is  needless  to 
particularize.  Why  Mr.  Heinemann  should 
have  supported  the  Libraries  in  the  private 
deliberations  of  the  Publishers  I  cannot 
imagine.  But  that  is  the  fault  of  my 
imagination.  I  have  an  immense  confidence 
in  Mr.  Heinemann's  business  acumen  and 
instinct  for  self-preservation. 

The  Publishers,  if  they  chose,  could  kill 
the  censorship  movement  at  once  by  politely 
declining  to  submit  their  books  to  the 
censorship.  If  only  the  three  big  fiction 
firms  concerted  to  do  this,  the  Libraries 
would  be  compelled  to  withdraw  their  proj- 
ect. But  the  Publishers  will  not  do  this; 
not  even  three  of  them  will  do  it.  The  only 
argument  against  a  censorship  is  that  it  is 
extremely  harmful  to  original  literature  of 
permanent  value;  and  such  an  argument 
does  not  make  any  very  powerful  appeal  to 

170 


CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

publishers.  What  most  publishers  want  is  to  23  Dec.  'og 
earn  as  much  money  as  possible  with  as  little 
fuss  as  possible.  Again,  the  Authors'  Society 
might  kill  the  censorship  conspiracy  by  de- 
clining to  allow  its  members  to  sign  any  agree- 
ment with  publishers  which  did  not  contain  a 
clause  forbidding  the  publisher  to  submit  the 
book  to  the  committee  of  hiring  experts.  A 
dozen  leading  novelists  could  command  the 
situation.  But  the  Authors'  Society  will  do 
nothing  effective.  The  official  reply  of  the 
Authors'  Society  was  as  feeble  as  that  of 
the  Publishers.  I  repeat  that  the  only 
argument  against  a  censorship  is  that  it  is 
extremely  harmful  to  original  literature  of 
permanent  value;  such  an  argument  does 
not  make  any  very  powerful  appeal  to 
authors.  What  most  authors  want  is  to 
earn  as  much  money  as  possible  with  as  little 
fuss  as  possible.  Besides,  the  great  money- 
makers among  authors — the  authors  of 
weight  with  publishers  and  libraries — have 
nothing  to  fear  from  any  censorship.  They 
censor  themselves.  They  take  the  most  par- 
ticular care  not  to  write  anything  original, 
courageous,  or  true,  because  these  qualities 
alienate  more  subscribers  than  they  please. 
I  am  not  a  pessimist  nor  a  cynic,  but  I 
enjoy  contemplating  the  real  facts  of  a  case. 

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BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

22  Dec.  'op  All  the  forces  would  seem  to  be  in  favour 
of  the  establishment  of  a  censorship.  (And 
by  a  censorship  I  mean  such  a  censorship 
as  would  judge  books  by  a  code  which,  if  it 
was  applied  to  them,  would  excommunicate 
the  Bible,  Shakespeare,  Defoe,  Richardson, 
Fielding,  Sterne,  Swift,  Shelley,  Rossetti. 
Meredith,  Hardy,  and  George  Moore.  "  The 
Ordeal  of  Richard  Feverel "  would  never, 
as  a  new  work,  pass  a  library  censorship. 
Nor  would  "  Jude  the  Obscure,"  nor  half 
a  dozen  of  Hardy's  other  books;  nor  would 
most  of  George  Moore.)  Nevertheless  I  am 
not  very  much  perturbed.  There  are  three 
tremendous  forces  against  the  establishment 
of  a  genuine  censorship,  and  I  think  that  they 
will  triumph.  The  first  is  that  mysterious 
nullifying  force  by  which  such  movements 
usually  do  fizzle  out.  The  second  force 
against  it  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  movement 
is  not  genuinely  based  on  public  opinion. 
And  the  third  is  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of 
money  to  be  made  out  of  merely  silly 
mawkish  books  which  a  genuine  censorship 
would  ban  with  serious,  original  work. 
For  such  books  a  strong  demand  exists 
among  people  otherwise  strictly  respectable, 
far  stronger  than  the  feeling  against  such 
books.      The    demand    will    have    its    way. 

172 


CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

A    few    serious    and    obstinate    authors    will  2^  Dec.  'og 

perhaps    suffer    for    awhile.      But    then    we 

often   do  suffer.     We   don't  seem   to   mind. 

No  one  could  guess,  for  instance,  from  the 

sweet  Christian  kindliness  of  my  general  tone 

towards  Mr.  Jesse  Boot's   library   that  Mr. 

Jesse  Boot  had  been  guilty  of  banning  some 

of  my  work  which  I  love  most.     But  it  is 

so.     I   suppose  we   don't  mind,   because   in 

the   end    dead   or   alive    we   come   out   on 

top. 

I  imagined  that  I  had  said  the  last  word  30  Dec.  '09 
on  this  subject,  and  hence  I  intended  to  say 
no  more.  But  it  appears  that  I  was  mis- 
taken. It  appears,  from  a  somewhat  trucu- 
lent letter  which  I  have  received  from  a 
correspondent,  that  I  have  not  yet  even 
touched  the  fringe  of  the  subject.  Parts  of 
this  correspondent's  letter  are  fairly  print- 
able. He  says :  "  You  look  at  the  matter 
from  quite  the  wrong  point  of  view.  There 
is  only  one  point  of  view,  and  that  is  the 
subscribers'.  The  Libraries  don't  exist  for 
authors,  but  for  us  (he  is  a  subscriber  to 
Mudie's).  We  pay,  and  the  Libraries  are 
for  our  convenience.  They  are  not  for  the 
furtherance  of  English  literature,  or  what- 
ever you  call  it.    What  I  say  is,  if  I  order  a 

173 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

30  Dec.  'op  book  from  a  Library  I  ought  to  be  able  to  get 
it,  unless  it  has  been  confiscated  by  the 
police.  I  didn't  pay  my  subscription  in 
order  to  have  my  choice  of  books  limited  to 
such  books  as  some  frock-coated  personage 
in  Oxford  Street  thought  good  for  me.  I've 
spent  about  forty  years  in  learning  to  know 
what  I  like  in  literature,  and  I  don't  want 
anybody  to  teach  me.  I'm  not  a  young 
girl,  I'm  a  middle-aged  man;  but  I  don't  see 
why  I  should  be  handicapped  by  that. 
And  if  I  am  to  be  handicapped  I'm  going 
to  chuck  Mudie's.  I've  already  written 
them  a  very  rude  letter  about  Mr.  de 
Morgan's  "  It  Never  Can  Happen  Again." 
I  wanted  that  book.  They  told  me  they 
didn't  supply  it.  And  when  I  made  a  row 
they  wrote  me  a  soothing  letter  nearly  as  long 
as  the  Epistle  to  the  Ephesians  explaining 
why  they  didn't  supply  it.  Something  about 
two  volumes  and  a  half-a-sovereign.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care.  I  don't 
care  whether  a  book's  in  one  volume  or  in  a 
hundred  volumes.  If  I  want  it,  and  if  I've 
paid  for  the  right  to  have  it,  I've  got  to  have 
it,  or  I've  got  to  have  my  money  back. 
They  mumbled  something  in  their  letter 
about  having  received  many  complaints 
from   other   subscribers   about  novels   being 

174 


CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

in  two  volumes.     But  what  do  I  care  about  3o  Dec.  'og 
other  subscribers?" 

And  he  continues,  after  a  deviation  into 
forceful  abuse:  "I  don't  want  to  force 
novels  in  two  volumes  down  the  throats  of 
other  subscribers.  I  don't  want  to  force 
anything  down  their  throats.  They  aren't 
obliged  to  take  what  they  don't  want. 
There  are  lots  of  books  circulated  by  Mudie's 
that  I  strongly  object  to — books  that  make 
me  furious — as  regards  both  moral  and 
physical  heaviness  and  tediousness  and 
general  tommy-rot.  But  do  I  write  and 
complain,  and  ask  Mudie's  to  withdraw  such 
books  altogether?  If  Mudie's  came  along 
with  a  pistol  and  two  volumes  by  Hall  Caine, 
and  said  to  me,  '  Look  here,  I'll  make  you 
have  these,'  then  perhaps  I  might  begin 
to  murmur  gently.  But  he  doesn't.  I'll 
say  this  for  Mudie;  he  doesn't  force  you  to 
take  particular  books.  You  can  always 
leave  what  you  don't  want.  All  these 
people  who  are  (alleged  to  be)  crying  out  for 
a  censorship, — they're  merely  idle!  If  they 
really  want  a  censorship  they  ought  to 
exercise  it  themselves.  Robinson  has  a 
daughter,  and  he  is  shocked  at  the  idea  of 
her  picking  up  a  silly  sham-erotic  novel  by  a 

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BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

30  Dec.  'op  member  of  the  aristocracy,  or  a  first-rate 
beautiful  thing  by  George  Moore.  .  .  .  Am  I 
then  to  be  deprived  of  the  chance  of  studying 
the  inane  psychology  of  the  ruling  classes  or 
of  enjoying  the  work  of  a  great  artist?     Be 

d d    to    Robinson's    daughter!      I    don't 

care  a  bilberry  for  either  her  or  her  innocence. 
I'm  not  going  to  be  responsible  for  Robinson's 
daughter.  Let  Robinson,  if  he  is  such  a 
fool  as  to  suppose  that  daughters  can  be 
spoiled  by  bad  books  or  good  books — let 
him  look  after  her  himself!  Let  him 
establish  his  confounded  censorship  at  his 
front  door,  or  at  his  drawing-room  door. 
Let  him  do  his  own  work.  Nothing  but 
idleness — that's  what's  the  matter  with  him! 
The  whole  project  that  Robinson  suggests  is 
simply  monstrous.  He  might  just  as  well 
say  that  because  his  daughter  has  a  weak 
digestion  and  an  unruly  appetite  for  rich 
cakes,  therefore  all  the  cake  shops  in  London 
must  be  shut  up.  Let  him  keep  her  out  of 
cake  shops.  All  I  want  is  freedom.  I  don't 
mean  to  defend  my  tastes  or  to  apologize 
for  them.  If  I  wish  to  hire  a  certain  book, 
that's  enough.  I  must  have  it — until  the 
police  step  in.  There  can  only  be  one 
censorship,  and  that  is  by  the  police.  A 
Library    is    a    commercial    concern,    and    I 

176 


CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

won't  look   at  it  from   any  other  point  of  30  Dec.  'oq 

view.     I    have   no    interest   at   the    present 

moment  in  your  emotions  about  the  future  of 

literature,    and    the    livelihood    of    serious 

artists,    and    so    on.      All    that's    absolutely 

beside  the  point.     The  sole  point  is  that  I 

am  ready  to  let  other  people  have  what  they 

want,  and  I  claim  that  I've  the  right  to  have 

what  I  want.    The  whole  thing  is  simple  rot, 

and  there's  no  other  word  for  it." 


177 


igio 


CENSORSHIP  BY  THE 
LIBRARIES 

A  NUMBER  of  people  have  been  good  i3  Jan.  'lo 
enough  to  explain  to  me  that  the  project  of  the 
Circulating  Libraries  Censorship  (now  par- 
tially "  in  being  ")  did  not  originally  concern 
itself  with  novels,  and  that,  in  the  first  place, 
it  was  directed  against  books  of  more  or  less 
scandalous  memoirs.  Of  this  I  was  well 
aware.  But  in  writing  about  the  matter  I 
expressly  tried  to  centre  its  interest  on  the 
novel,  because  the  novel  is  the  only  impor- 
tant part  of  the  affair.  For  a  year  past  I 
have  been  inveighing  against  the  increasing 
taste  for  feeble  naughtiness  concerning 
king's  mistresses  and  all  that  sort  of  tedious 
person.  And  I  have  remarked  on  the 
growing  frequency  of  such  words  as  "  fair," 
"  frail,"  "  lover,"  "  enchantress,"  etc.,  in 
the  supposed-to-be-alluring  titles  of  books  of 
historical  immorality.  (I  presume  that  these 
volumes  are  called  for  by  the  respectable,  as 
the  cocotte  calls  for  a  creme  de  menthe  at  a 
fashionable  seaside  hotel  on  a  winter  Sunday 
afternoon.)  Apparently  the  circulating 
libraries  also  have  noticed  the  growing 
frequency  of  such  words  in  their  lists.  But 
what  they  have  noticed  with  more  genuine 

i8i 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

J3  Jan.  'lo  alarm  is  the  growing  prices  which  clever 
publishers  have  been  putting  on  such  books. 
It  has  not  escaped  the  observation  of  clever 
publishers  that  the  demand  by  library 
subscribers  for  such  books  is  a  very  real 
demand,  and  clever  publishers  therefore 
thought  that  they  might  make  a  little  bit 
extra  in  this  connexion  by  charging  high  for 
volumes  brief  but  scandalous.  The  libraries 
thought  otherwise.  Hence,  in  truth,  the 
attempted  censorship.  The  now  famous 
moral  crusade  of  the  libraries  would  cer- 
tainly not  have  occurred  had  not  the  libraries 
perceived,  in  the  moral  pressure  which  was 
exercised  upon  them  from  lofty  regions,  the 
chance  of  effecting  economies.  And  there 
is  not  a  circulating  library  that  does  not  feel 
an  authentic  need  of  economies. 

I  should  have  objected  to  a  censorship 
even  of  scandalized  history,  for  no  censorship 
ever  cured  a  population  of  bad  taste.  But 
naturally  the  libraries  could  not  stop  at 
memoirs.  They  had,  in  order  to  be  con- 
sistent and  to  talk  big  about  morality,  to 
include  novels  in  their  scheme  of  scavenging. 
At  this  point  the  libraries  pass  from  futile 
foolishness  to  active  viciousness,  and  so 
encounter    the    opposition    of    persons    like 

182 


CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

myself,  whose  business  it  is  to  keep  an  eye  on  jj  Jan.  'lo 
things. 

I  can  tell  a  true  tale  about  one  of  the  three 
great  circulating  libraries.  A  certain  man 
of  taste  was  directing  the  education  in 
literature  of  a  certain  woman.  The  time 
came  when  the  woman  had  to  study  Balzac. 
The  man  gave  her  a  list  of  titles  of  novels  by 
Balzac  which  she  was  to  read.  She  went  to 
her  library,  but  could  not  find,  in  the  list  of 
Balzac's  complete  "  Comedie  Humaine " 
furnished  by  the  library,  one  of  the  works 
which  she  had  been  instructed  to  peruse. 
Hearing  of  this,  the  man,  whose  curiosity 
was  aroused,  called  at  the  library  to  conduct 
an  inquiry.  He  had  an  interview  with  one 
of  the  managers,  and  the  manager  at  once 
admitted  that  their  complete  list  was  not 
complete.  "  We  cannot  supply  a  work  with 
such  a  title,"  the  manager  explained.  The 
book  was  one  of  the  most  famous  and  one  of 
the  finest  of  nineteenth-century  novels, 
"  Splendeurs  et  Miseres  de  Courtisanes," 
issued  by  Messrs.  Dent  and  Co.  (surely  a 
respectable  firm),  with  a  preface  by  Pro- 
fessor George  Saintsbury  (surely  a  respect- 
able mandarin),  under  the  title,  "The 
Harlot's     Progress."     The     man     of     taste 

183 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

13  Jan.  '10  asked,  "  Have  you  read  the  book?"  "No," 
said  the  manager.  "  Have  you  read  any  of 
Balzac's  novels?"  "No,"  said  the  man- 
ager. "  Do  you  prohibit  Galsworthy's  *  Man 
of  Property'?"  "No,"  said  the  manager. 
"  Have  you  read  it?  "  "  No,"  said  the  man- 
ager. "  Do  you  prohibit  Jacob  Tonson's 
last  novel?"  "No,"  said  the  manager. 
"  Have  you  read  it? "  "  No,"  said  the 
manager.  "Well,"  said  the  man  of  taste, 
"  you'd  better  read  one  or  two  of  these  later 
writers,  and  then  think  over  the  Balzac 
question."  The  manager  discreetly  replied 
that  he  would  consult  the  principal  pro- 
prietor. The  next  morning  "  The  Harlot's 
Progress,"  in  two  volumes,  was  sent  round 
from  the  library. 

But  imagine  it!  Imagine  one  of  the 
largest  circulating  libraries  in  the  world,  in 
the  year  1909,  refusing  to  supply  an  estab- 
lished, world-admired,  classical  work  of 
genius  because  its  title  contains  the  word 
"  harlot "  !  In  no  other  European  capital, 
nor  in  any  American  capital,  could  such  a 
monstrously  idiotic  and  disgusting  thing 
happen.  It  is  so  preposterous  that  one 
cannot  realize  it  all  at  once.  I  am  a  tre- 
mendous admirer  of  England.    I  have  lived 

184 


CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

too  long  in  foreign  parts  not  to  see  the  fine-  13  Jan.  '10 
ness  of  England.  But  in  matters  of  hy- 
pocrisy there  is  really  something  very  wrong 
with  this  island,  and  the  atmosphere  of  this 
island  is  thick  enough  to  choke  all  artists 
dead.  You  can  walk  up  and  down  the 
Strand  and  see  photographs  of  celebrated 
living  harlots  all  over  the  place.  You  can 
buy  them  on  picture  postcards  for  your 
daughter.  You  can  see  their  names  even 
on  the  posters  of  high-class  weekly  papers. 
You  can  entertain  them  at  the  most  select 
fashionable  restaurants.  Indeed,  the  share- 
holders of  fashionable  restaurants  would 
look  very  blue  without  the  said  harlots. 
(Only  they  aren't  called  harlots.)  But  if  you 
desire  to  read  a  masterpiece  of  social 
fiction,  some  mirror  of  crass  stupidity  in  a 
circulating  library  will  try  to  save  you  from 
yourself. 

Up  Yorkshire  way  the  opponents  of  free-  24  Feb.  '10 
dom  have  been  dealing  some  effective  blows 
at  the  Libraries  Censorship.  They  doubtless 
imagine  that  they  have  been  supporting  the 
Libraries  Censorship;  but  they  are  mis- 
taken. Hull  has  distinguished  itself.  It  is 
a  strange,  interesting  place.  I  only  set  foot 
in    it   once;    the    day   was    Sunday,    and   I 

lis 


BOOKS   AND   PERSONS 

24.  Feb.  '10  arrived  by  sea.  I  was  informed  that  a  man 
could  not  get  a  shave  in  Hull  on  Sunday. 
But  I  got  one.  At  the  last  meeting  of  the 
Hull  Libraries  Committee,  when  "  Ann 
Veronica "  was  under  discussion,  Canon 
Lambert  procured  for  the  name  of  Lambert 
a  free  advertisement  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  country  by  saying:  "  I 
would  just  as  soon  send  a  daughter  of  mine  to 
a  house  infected  with  diphtheria  or  typhoid 
fever  as  put  that  book  into  her  hands." 
I  doubt  it.  I  can  conceive  that,  if  it  came 
to  the  point,  Canon  Lambert's  fear  of 
infection  and  regard  for  his  own  canonical 
skin  might  move  him  to  offer  his  daughter 
"  Ann  Veronica  "  in  preference  to  diphtheria 
and  typhoid  fever.  Canons  who  give  ex- 
pression to  this  kind  of  babblement  must 
expect  what  they  get  in  the  way  of  responses. 
Let  the  Canon  now  turn  the  other  cheek,  in 
a  Christian  spirit,  and  I  will  see  what  I  can 
do  for  him. 

Needless  to  say,  "  Ann  Veronica "  was 
banned  from  the  Free  Public  Libraries  of 
free  Hull.  But  I  cull  the  following  from 
the  Hull  Daily  Mail:  "A  local  bookseller 
had  thirteen  orders  for  '  Ann  Veronica '  on 
Monday,    thirty    on    Tuesday,    and    scores 

186 


CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

since.     Previously  he  had  no  demand."     A  24.  Feb.  '10 
Canon   Lambert   in   every   town   would   de- 
molish the  censorship   in   less   time   than   it 
took  the  Hebrew  deity  to  create  the  world 
and  the  fig-tree. 

Canon  Lambert,  doubtless  unconsciously, 
went  wide  of  the  point.  The  point  was  not 
a  code  for  the  parental  treatment  of  canons' 
daughters.  England  was  not  waiting  for 
information  as  to  what  Canon  Lambert 
would  do  to  a  Miss  Lambert  in  a  given 
dilemma.  H.  G.  Wells  did  not  turn  up  in 
Hull  with  a  Catling  gun  and,  turning  it  on 
the  Canon's  abode,  threaten  to  blow  the 
ecclesiastical  wigwam  to  pieces  if  the  canon 
did  not  immediately  buy  a  copy  of  "  Ann 
Veronica "  for  his  daughter  to  read.  No- 
body wants  to  interfere  between  the  Canon 
and  a  Miss  Lambert.  All  that  quiet  people 
want  is  to  be  left  alone  to  treat  their  daugh- 
ters according  to  their  lights.  Does  Canon 
Lambert  hold  that  the  Hull  libraries  are  to 
contain  no  volumes  which  he  would  not  care 
for  his  daughter  to  read? 

The  Hull  Daily  Mail  has,  I  regret  to  say, 
taken  the  side  of  the  Canon.  This  is  a  pity. 
The   Hull   paper   should   be   a   little   more 

187 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

24.  Feb.  '10  careful  about  the  letters  it  prints.  In  a 
recent  issue  it  allowed  a  correspondent  to 
call  "  Ann  Veronica "  "  pornographic," 
which  is  most  distinctly  libellous.  But 
possibly  the  correspondent  and  the  news- 
paper felt  themselves  secure  in  Mr.  Wells's 
disdain.  "  Ann  Veronica "  is  not  porno- 
graphic. It  is  not  even  indecent.  It  is 
utterly  decent  from  end  to  end.  It  is  also 
utterly  honest.  It  is  not  one  Mr.  Wells's 
major  productions.  But  if  a  work  of  an 
honourable  and  honoured  artist  is  to  be 
damned  because  it  happens  to  be  inferior  to 
other  works  of  the  same  artist,  Hull  ought 
to  consider  the  awful  case  of  "  Measure  for 
Measure."  By  the  way,  would  Canon  Lam- 
bert as  soon  send  a  Miss  Lambert  to  a  house 
infected  with  mumps  as  put  "  Measure 
for  Measure"  into  her  hands?  The  Hull 
Daily  Mail,  taken  to  task,  sheltered  itself 
behind  Mr.  Clement  Shorter  and  the  Sphere. 
I  will  not  discuss  Mr.  Shorter's  singular 
pronouncement  upon  "  Ann  Veronica,"  be- 
cause I  am  in  a  very  good  humour  with  him 
just  now  for  his  excellently  acid  remarks 
upon  the  "  success "  literature  of  Mr. 
Peter  Keary.  But  I  may  remark  that 
Mr.  Shorter  did  not  advocate  the  censor- 
ing of  the  book,   nor  did  he  come  within 

188 


CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

seven  Irish  miles  of  describing  it  as  porno-  24  Feb.  '10 
graphic. 

Canonical  people  have  tried  to  make 
capital  out  of  the  fact  that  "  Ann  Veronica  " 
is  not  to  be  found  in  the  public  libraries 
of  sundry  large  towns.  But  the  reason 
may  not  be  connected  with  the  iconoclasm  of 
"  Ann  Veronica."  In  an  interview,  Mr. 
T.  W.  Hand,  the  librarian  at  Leeds,  said: 
"  I  haven't  read  the  book  through  (Why 
not?),  though  I  have  seen  it,  and  we  haven't 
got  it  in  any  of  our  libraries  in  Leeds.  The 
reason  for  this  is  not  the  character  of  the 
book,  but  the  fact  that  we  never  purchase 
our  novels  until  they  have  become  cheaper." 
Charming  confession!  A  subscription  ought 
to  be  opened  for  poverty-stricken  Leeds, 
which  must  wait  to  buy  an  English  book  that 
is  or  will  be  translated  into  every  European 
language,  until  it  has  become  cheaper!  A 
few  weeks  ago  the  country  was  laughing  at 
little  Beverley  because  its  Fathers  publicly 
decided  to  purchase  no  fiction  less  than  a 
year  old.  But  are  the  great  towns  any 
better  off? 

Literary    censorship     in    the    intellectual  ^  Mar.  '10 
centre  of  the  world:  I  need  hardly  say  that 

189 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

3  Mar.  'lo  I  mean  Boston,  Mass.  Boston  is  the  city 
of  Harvard  University.  It  is  also  the  city 
of  the  "Atlantic  Monthly."  It  is  also  the 
city  of  Emerson,  Lowell,  Longfellow,  and 
Holmes.  Boston  has  a  Public  Library.  It 
is  supposed  to  be  one  of  the  finest  public 
libraries  in  this  world  or  any  other.  Great 
artists,  such  as  Puvis  de  Chavannes  and 
John  Sargent,  have  helped  to  decorate  the 
Boston  Library.  In  brief,  Boston  and  its 
Library  are  not  to  be  sneezed  at.  A  certain 
woman  asked  for  George  Moore's  "  Esther 
Waters,"  recognized,  I  believe,  as  one  of  the 
most  serious  and  superb  of  modern  novels. 
The  work  was  included  in  the  catalogue  of 
the  Library.  In  reply  to  her  request  she 
was  informed  that  she  could  not  have 
"  Esther  Waters "  unless  she  obtained  from 
the  Chief  Mandarin  or  Librarian  special 
permission  to  read  it,  on  the  ground  that  she 
was  a  "  student  of  literature."  I  doubt 
whether  the  imagination  of  nincompoops 
and  boards  of  management  has  ever  devised 
anything  more  beautiful  than  this. 

<i« 

But  the  lady  had  a  husband,  and  the 
husband,  being  a  prominent  journalist, 
had  the  editorial  use  of  a  newspaper  in 
Boston.     He  began  to  make  enquiries,  and 

190 


CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

he  discovered  that  many  of  the  catalogue  3  Mar.  '10 
cards  were  marked  with  red  stars,  and  that  a 
star  signified  that  the  work  described  on  the 
card  was  not  morally  fit  for  general  circula- 
tion. He  further  discovered  that  works 
rankly  and  frankly  pornographic  and  works 
of  distinguished  art  were  starred  with  the 
same  star.  Lastly,  he  discovered  that  the 
Chief  Mandarin  or  Librarian,  all  out  of  his 
own  head  and  off  his  own  bat,  had  appointed 
a  reading  committee  for  the  dividing  of 
modern  fiction  into  sheep  and  goats,  and  that 
the  said  committee  consisted  exclusively 
of  Boston  dames  mature  in  years.  He 
exposed  the  entire  affair  in  his  newspapers 
and  made  a  very  pleasing  sensation.  The 
first  result  was  that  his  wife  was  afterwards 
received  at  the  Library  with  imperial  hon- 
ours and  given  to  understand  by  kowtowing 
sub-mandarins  that  she  might  have  the 
whole  red-star  library  sent  home  to  her 
house  if  she  so  desired.  There  was  no  other 
result.  The  rest  of  reading  Boston  re- 
mained under  the  motherly  but  autocratic 
care  of  ces  dames.  Those  skilled  in  the 
artistic  records  of  Boston  may  remem- 
ber that  the  management  of  the  same 
Library  once  refused  the  offered  gift  of  a 
statue    of    a    woman    holding    a    baby,    on 

191 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

3  Mar.  'lo  the   sole  ground   that  the  woman  was   not 
attired. 

26  May  'lo  More  interesting  information  has  accrued 
to  me  concerning  literary  censorship  in  the 
British  provinces.  Glasgow  has  about  a 
dozen  lending  libraries,  chiefly,  I  believe, 
of  the  Carnegie  species.  In  none  of  these 
are  the  works  of  Richardson,  Fielding,  and 
Smollett  allowed  a  place.  Further,  "  Anna 
Karenina,"  "  Resurrection,"  "  Tess,"  "  Jude 
the  Obscure,"  and  "  Tono-Bungay "  are 
banned.  Further,  and  still  more  droll,  in 
the  words  of  a  correspondent  who  has  been 
good  enough  to  send  me  all  sorts  of  particu- 
lars : — "  A  few  days  ago  I  applied  at  the 
Mitchell  Library  (a  reference  library  in  the 
centre  of  the  town)  for  Whitman's  poems. 
The  attendant  procured  the  volume,  but, 
before  handing  it  to  me,  consulted  one  of  the 
senior  librarians.  This  official  scrutinized 
me  from  a  distance  of  about  eight  yards  and 
finally  nodded  his  head  in  acquiescence. 
The  book  was  then  given  to  me.  On  the 
back  of  it  a  little  red  label  was  affixed.  I 
made  enquiry  and  discovered  that  books 
with  these  labels  are  only  given  out  to 
persons  of  (what  shall  I  say?)  good  moral 
appearance." 

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CENSORSHIP    BY    THE    LIBRARIES 

Nevertheless,  we  ought  to  be  thankful  that  26  May  '10 
we  live  in  Britain.  The  case  of  the  United 
States  is  in  some  respects  far  worse  than 
ours.  The  egregious  Sir  Robert  Anderson 
has  just  explained  in  Blackwood  how  he 
established  a  sort  of  unofficial  censorship  of 
morals  at  the  English  Post  Office.  In  the 
United  States  an  official  censorship  of  mailed 
matter  exists,  and  the  United  States  Post 
Office  can  and  does  regularly  examine  the 
literature  entrusted  to  it,  and  can  and  does 
reject  what  it  deems  inimical  to  the  morals  of 
the  native  land  of  Jay  Gould,  James  Gordon 
Bennett,  J.  D.  Rockefeller,  and  the  re- 
gretted Harriman.  Among  other  matter 
which  the  United  States  Post  Office  censor- 
ship has  recently  excluded  are  the  following 
items : — 

An  extract  from  an  article  in  the  Fort- 
nightly Review. 

An  extract  from  "  Man  and  Superman." 

An  article  in  favour  of  freedom  of  the 
Press  reprinted  from  the  Boston's  Woman's 
Journal. 

An  article  by  Lady  Florence  Dixie  re- 
printed from  a  Scottish  county  paper. 

On  one  occasion  the  editor  of  Lucifer 
had  occasion  to  mention  that  adultery  and 

193 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

26  May  '10  fornication  had  not  been  criminal  offences  in 
England  since  1660.  The  authorities  were 
so  aghast  at  the  idea  of  this  information 
being  allowed  to  creep  out  that  they  insisted 
on  the  passage  being  deleted.     It  was. 

Further.  The  Editor  of  an  American 
paper,  on  it  being  suggested  to  him  that  he 
should  reprint  portions  of  a  criticism  of 
"Measure  for  Measure,"  by  Mr.  A.  B. 
Walkley  in  the  Times,  refused  to  do  so  for 
fear  of  prosecution.  Perhaps  the  most  truly 
American  instance  of  all  is  the  misfortune 
that  befell  the  Reverend  Mabel  McCoy 
Irwin.  The  excellent  lady  began  to  publish 
a  paper  advocating  strict  chastity  for  both 
sexes.  It  was  excluded  from  the  mails  on 
the  ground  that  no  allusion  to  sex  could  be 
tolerated.  I  reckon  this  anecdote  to  be 
the  most  exquisitely  perfect  of  all  anecdotes 
that  I  have  ever  come  across  in  the  diverting 
history  of  moral  censorships.  There  is  a 
subtle  flavour  about  that  name,  Mabel 
McCoy  Irwin,  which  is  indescribably  ap- 
posite .  .  .  McCoy.  It  is  a  wonderful 
world!  I  am  much  indebted  to  an  American 
correspondent  for  these  delights. 


194 


BRIEUX 

I  FORESEE  a  craze  in  this  country  for  17  P^^-  '10 
Brieux.  I  first  perceived  its  coming  one 
day  during  an  intellectual  meal  in  a  green- 
painted  little  restaurant  in  Soho.  When- 
ever I  go  into  Soho  I  pass  through  experi- 
ences which  send  me  out  again  a  wiser  man. 
On  this  occasion  I  happened  to  speak  lightly 
of  Brieux  to  a  friend  of  mine,  a  prominent 
and  influential  member  of  the  Stage  Society 
— one  of  those  men  in  London  who  think 
to-day  what  London  will  think  to-morrow, 
and  what  Paris  thought  yesterday.  He  was 
visibly  shocked  by  my  tone.  His  invincible 
politeness  withstood  the  strain,  but  the 
strain  was  terrible.  From  this  incident 
alone  I  was  almost  ready  to  prophesy  a 
Brieux  craze  in  London.  And  now  a 
selection  of  Brieux's  plays  is  to  be  published 
in  English  in  one  volume,  with  a  preface  by 
Bernard  Shaw.  Within  a  fortnight  of  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  book  the  Brieux  craze  will 
exist  in  full  magnificence.  Leading  articles 
will  contain  learned  offhand  allusions  to 
Brieux,  Brieux  and  Shaw  will  be  compared 
and  differentiated,  and  Brieux  will  be  the 
most  serious  dramatist  in  France.  I  doubt 
not  that  Mr.  Shaw's  preface  will  be  a  witty 

19s 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

17  Feb.  '10  and  illuminating  affair,  and  that  it  will  show 
me  agreeable  aspects  of  Brieux's  talent 
which  have  hitherto  escaped  me;  but  if  it 
persuades  me  that  Brieux  is  an  artistically 
serious  dramatist  worth  twopence,  then  I 
will  retire  from  public  life  and  seek  a  post  as 
third  sub-editor  on  the  British  Weekly, 

Brieux  is  a  man  with  moral  ideas.  I  will 
admit  even  that  he  is  dominated  by  moral 
ideas,  which,  if  they  are  sometimes  crude, 
are  certainly  righteous.  He  is  a  reformer 
and  a  passionate  reformer.  But  a  man  can 
be  a  passionate  reformer,  with  a  marked  turn 
for  eloquence,  and  yet  not  be  a  serious 
dramatist.  Dr.  Clifford  is  a  reformer. 
Mr.  Henniker  Heaton  is  a  passionate  re- 
former; and  both  are  capable  of  literature 
when  they  are  excited.  But  they  are  not 
dramatists.  We  still  await  Mr.  Henniker 
Heaton's  tragic  fourth  act  about  the  failure 
of  the  negotiations  for  a  penny  post  with 
France.  Brieux  is  too  violent  a  reformer 
ever  to  be  a  serious  dramatist.  Violent 
reformers  are  unprincipled,  and  the  reformer 
in  Brieux  forces  the  dramatist  in  him  to 
prostitution.  The  dramatist  in  him  is  not 
strong  enough  to  resist  the  odious  demands 
of   the    reformer:   which   fact   alone   shows 

196 


BRIEUX 

how  far  he  is  from  being  a  first-rate  drama-  ly  Feb.  *io 
tist.  As  a  dramatist  Brieux  is  no  stronger, 
no  more  sincere,  no  less  unscrupulous,  no 
less  viciously  sentimental,  than  the  fashion- 
able authors  of  the  boulevard,  such  as 
Capus,  Donnay,  and  the  ineffable  Bernstein, 
so  adored  in  London.  And  it  is  as  a 
dramatist  that  he  must  be  judged.  Of 
course,  if  you  v^^ish  to  judge  him  as  a  re- 
former, you  must  get  some  expert  opinion 
about  his  subjects  of  reform.  I  fancy  that  you 
will  end  by  discovering  that  as  a  reformer  he 
must  be  considered  just  a  little  crude. 

I  have  seen  most  of  Brieux's  plays,  and  I 
have  seen  them  produced  under  his  own 
direction,  so  that  I  can  judge  fairly  well  what 
he  is  after  on  the  stage.  And  I  am  bound 
to  say  that,  with  the  exception  of  "  Les 
Trois  Filles  de  Monsieur  Dupont"  (which 
pleased  me  pretty  well  so  far  as  I  compre- 
hended its  dramatic  intention),  I  have  not 
seen  one  which  I  could  refrain  from  despis- 
ing. Brieux's  plays  always  begin  so  bril- 
liantly, and  they  always  end  so  feebly,  in 
such  a  wishwash  of  sentimentalism.  Take 
his  last  play — no,  his  last  play  was  "  La 
Foi,"  produced  by  Mr.  Tree,  and  I  have  not 
yet  met  even  an  ardent  disciple  of  the  craze 

197 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

ly  Feb.  'lo  who  has  had  sufficient  effrontery  to  argue 
that  it  is  a  good  play.  Take  his  last  play  but 
one,  "  Suzette " — or  "  Suzanne,"  or  what- 
ever its  girl's  name  was — produced  at  the 
Paris  Vaudeville  last  autumn.  The  first 
act  is  very  taking  indeed.  You  can  see  the 
situation  of  the  ostracized  wife  coming  along 
beautifully.  The  preparation  is  charming, 
in  the  best  boulevard  manner.  But  when 
the  situation  arrives  and  has  to  be  dealt  with 
■ — what  a  mess,  what  falseness,  what  wrench- 
ing, what  sickly  smoothing,  what  ranting, 
and  what  terrific  tediousness!  It  is  so  easy 
to  begin.  It  is  so  easy  to  think  of  a  fine  idea. 
The  next  man  you  meet  in  a  hotel  bar  will 
tell  you  a  fine  idea  after  two  whiskeys — I 
mean  a  really  fine  idea.  Only  in  art  an  idea 
doesn't  exist  till  it  is  worked  out.  Brieux 
never  (with  the  possible  exception  above 
mentioned)  works  an  idea  out.  Because  he 
can't.  He  doesn't  know  enough  of  his 
business.  He  can  only  do  the  easy  parts  of 
his  business.  Last  autumn  also,  the 
Comedie  Frangaise  revived  "  La  Robe 
Rouge."  The  casting,  owing  to  an  effort 
to  make  it  too  good,  was  very  bad;  and  the 
production  was  very  bad,  though  Brieux 
himself  superintended  it.  But,  all  allow- 
ances made  for  the  inevitable  turpitudes  of 

198 


BRIEUX 

this  ridiculous  national  theatre,  the  play  17  Feb.  *io 
was  senile;  it  was  done  fori  Certainly  it 
exposes  the  abuses  of  the  French  magistra- 
ture,  but  at  what  cost  of  fundamental 
truth!  The  melodramatic  close  might  have 
been  written  in  the  Isle  of  Man. 

Take  the  most  notorious  of  all  his  plays, 
"  Les  Avaries."  It  contains  an  admirable 
sermon,  a  really  effective  sermon,  animated 
by  ideas  which  I  suppose  have  been  in  the 
minds  of  exceptionally  intelligent  men  for  a 
hundred  years  or  so,  and  which  Brieux  re- 
stated in  terms  of  dramatic  eloquence. 
But  the  sentimentality  of  the  end  is  simply 
base.  The  sentimentality  of  another  famous 
play,  "  Maternite,"  is  even  more  deplorable. 

It  is  said  that  Brieux's  plays  make  you 
think.  Well,  it  depends  who  you  are.  No, 
I  will  admit  that  they  have  several  times 
made  me  think.  I  will  admit  that,  since  I 
saw  "  Les  Avaries,"  I  have  never  thought 
quite  the  same  about  syphilis  as  I  did 
before.  But  what  I  say  is  that  this  has 
nothing  to  do  with  Brieux's  position  as  a 
dramatist.  Brieux  could  have  written  a 
pamphlet  on  the  subject  of  "  Les  Avaries  " 
which  would  have  impressed  me  just  as  much 

199 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

17  Feb.  '10  as  his  play  (I  happened  to  read  the  play 
before  I  witnessed  it).  Indeed,  if  he  had 
confined  himself  to  a  pamphlet  I  should  have 
respected  him  more  than  I  do.  Brieux  has 
never  sharpened  my  sense  of  beauty;  he 
has  never  made  me  see  beauty  where  I  had 
failed  to  see  it.  And  this  is  what  he  ought 
to  have  done,  as  a  serious  dramatist.  He  is 
deficient  in  a  feeling  for  beauty;  he  is 
deficient  in  emotion.  But  that  is  not  the 
worst  of  him.  Mr.  Shaw  is  deficient  in  these 
supreme  qualities.  But  Mr.  Shaw  is  an 
honest  playwright.  And  Brieux  (speaking, 
of  course,  in  a  sense  strictly  artistic)  is  not. 
That  he  is  dishonest  in  the  cause  of  moral 
progress  does  not  mitigate  his  crime.  Zealots 
may  deny  this  as  loudly  as  they  please. 
Nothing  can  keep  Brieux's  plays  alive; 
they  are  bound  to  go  precisely  where  the 
plays  of  Dumas  fils  have  gone,  because  they 
are  false  to  life.  I  do  not  expect  to  kill 
the  oncoming  craze,  but  I  will  give  it  no 
quarter. 


200 


C.  R  MONTAGUE 

I  HAVE  read  Mr.  C.  E.  Montague's  "  A  lo  Mar.  'lo 
Hind  Let  Loose"  (Methuen,  6s.),  and  I  am 
not  going  to  advise  anyone  to  follow  my 
example.  I  do  not  desire  to  prejudice  his 
circulation,  but  I  have  my  conscience  to 
consider.  This  is  not  a  book  for  the  intel- 
ligent masses;  it  would  be  folly  to  recom- 
mend it  to  them.  It  is  for  the  secretly- 
arrogant  few,  those  who  really  do  "  know 
that  they  are  august "  within,  whatever 
garment  of  diffident  and  wild  modesty  they 
may  offer  to  the  world.  Only  those  few 
can  understand  it.  All  admiration  other 
than  theirs  will  be  either  ignorant  or  dog- 
like— or  both.  Everybody  on  the  Press  will 
say  that  "  A  Hind  Let  Loose "  is  a  novel 
about  journalism.  It  is  not.  Journalism  is 
merely  the  cloak  hanging  windily  about  it, 
as  her  cloak  hung  about  Mrs.  Colum  Fay. 
It  is  a  novel  about  the  pride  of  the  Ego. 
It  is  the  fearful  and  yet  haughty  cry  of 
originality  against  the  vast  tendency  of  the 
age,  which  tendency  is  that  people  should 
live  in  the  age  as  in  an  intellectual  barracks. 
Hedlum,  the  conversational  clubman  and 
successful  barrister,  is  the  real  villain  of  the 
story,  though  he  appears  but  for  a  moment. 

20 1 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

10  Mar.  'lo  "  Hedlum  would  take  up  all  that  was 
current,  trim  it  and  pare  its  nails,  and  give 
it  his  blessing  and  send  it  out  into  the  world 
to  get  on,  and  it  did  famously.  You  felt 
that  if  it  was  not  true  then  the  fault  was 
truth's;  there  must  be  some  upper  order  of 
truth,  not  universally  known,  to  which  he 
had  conformed  and  to  which  the  facts,  in 
the  vulgar  sense,  could  not  have  been  loyal. 
All  of  him  helped  the  effect.  He  was  of  the 
settled  age — fifty  or  so — handsome,  with  the 
controlled  benignity,  the  mellowed  pre- 
cision, the  happy,  distinguished  melancholy 
sometimes  united  in  a  good-looking  judge. 
.  .  .  You  watched  the  weighing  of  each 
word  at  its  exit  from  the  shaved,  working 
lips,  and  the  closure  of  their  inexorable 
adamant  behind  its  heels.  As  the  last 
commonplace  of  club  gossip,  smoke-room 
heroics,  and  music-hall  sentiment  issued 
from  these  portals,  transfigured  by  the 
moderate  discount  that  made  it  twice  itself, 
you  not  only  saw  it  was  final  truth,  or 
virility's  quintessential  emotion;  you  felt 
he  had  done  something  decisive,  even 
gallant,  and  that  you  were  in  it — a  fine 
fellow,  too,  in  your  way;  and  you  quickened; 
you  lived  back  and  forward,  back  to  the 
blithe  days  at  school  when  they  first  taught 

202 


C.  E.  MONTAGUE 

you   never  to   think  your   own   thoughts   or  lo  Mar.  'lo 

take  what  came  in  a  way  of  your  own,  but 

to    pool    your    brains    with    the    rest    and 

'  throw  yourself  into  the  life  of  the  school,' 

and    on    to    your    early    manhood's    deeper 

training  in  resemblance  to  others,  and  so  to 

the   good   day,    always   coming   and    always 

here,   always   to  be  had  by  him  who  wills 

it  with  his  might,  when  the  imitative  shall 

inherit  the  earth." 

I  quote  this,  the  very  essence  of  the  work, 
in  order  to  choke  off  the  feeble,  the  kind,  and 
the  altruistic.  I  would  not  hawk  this  book. 
If  I  had  foreknown  what  it  was  I  would 
never  have  mentioned  it.  I  would  have 
mentioned  it  to  none,  sure  that,  by  the 
strange  force  of  gravity  which  inevitably 
draws  together  a  book  and  its  fit  reader, 
the  novel  would  in  the  end  reach  the  only 
audience  worthy  of  it.  I  say  no  more 
about  it. 


203 


PUBLISHERS  AND  AUTHORS 

10  Mar.  'lo  AUTHENTIC  documents  are  always  precious 
to  the  student,  and  here  is  one  which  strikes 
me  as  precious  beyond  the  ordinary.  It  is  a 
letter  received  from  a  well-known  publisher 
by  a  correspondent  of  mine  who  is  a 
journalist: 

"  I  am  awfully  sorry  that  we  cannot  take 
your  novel,  which  is  immensely  clever,  and 
which  interested  my  partner  more  than 
anything  he  has  read  in  a  good  while.  He 
agrees  with  me,  however,  that  it  has  not 
got  the  qualities  that  make  for  a  sale,  and 
you  know  that  this  is  the  great  desideratum 
with  the  publisher.  Now  don't  get  peevish, 
and  send  us  nothing  else.  I  know  you  have 
a  lot  of  talent,  and  your  difficulty  is  in 
'  applying    this     talent    to     really    practical 

problems  rather  than  to  the  more  attractive 
products  of  the  imagination.  Get  down  to 
facts,  my  son,  and  study  your  market. 
Find  out  what  the  people  like  to  read  and 
then  write  a  story  along  those  lines.  This 
will  bring  you  success,  for  you  have  a  talent 
for  success.  Above  all  things,  don't  follow 
the  lead  of  our  headstrong  friend  who 
insists  upon   doing  exactly  what  you  have 

204 


PUBLISHERS  AND  AUTHORS 

done   in   this   novel,   namely,   neglecting   the  lo  Mar.  'lo 

practical     market     and     working     out     the 

fanciful  dictates  of  imagination.     Remember 

that  novel-writing  is  as  much  of  a  business 

as  making  calico.     If  you  write  the  novels 

that  people  want,  you  are  going  to  sell  them 

in  bales.     When  you  have  made  your  name 

and  your  market,  then  you  can  afford  to  let 

your  imagination  run  riot,  and  then  people 

will   look   at  you    admiringly,    and   say,   *  I 

don't  understand  this  genius  at  all,  but  isn't 

he   great? '     Do   you   see   the   point?     You 

must  do  this  AFTER  you  have  won  your 

market,  not  before,  and  you  can  only  win 

your  market  in   the  first  place   by  writing 

w^hat      folks      want     to      buy.  —  Sincerely 

yours " 

The  writer  is  American.  But  the  attitude 
of  the  average  pushing  English  publisher 
could  not  have  been  more  accurately  ex- 
pressed than  in  this  letter  sent  by  one  New 
Yorker  to  another.  The  only  thing  that 
puzzles  me  is  why  the  man  originally  chose 
books  instead  of  calico.  He  would  have 
sold  more  bales  and  made  more  money  in 
calico.  He  would  have  understood  calico 
better.  In  my  opinion  many  publishers 
would   have   understood   calico   better   than 

205 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

10  Mar.  'lo  books.  There  are  two  things  which  a 
publisher  ought  to  know  about  novel- 
producers — things  which  do  not,  curiously 
enough,  apply  to  calico-producers,  and 
which  few  publishers  have  ever  grasped. 
I  have  known  publishers  go  into  the  bank- 
ruptcy court  and  come  out  again  safely  and 
yet  never  grasp  the  significance  of  those  two 
things.  The  first  is  that  it  is  intensely 
stupid  to  ask  a  novelist  to  study  the  market 
with  a  view  to  obtaining  large  circulations. 
If  he  does  not  write  to  please  himself — if  his 
own  taste  does  not  naturally  coincide  with 
the  taste  of  the  million — he  will  never  reach 
the  million  by  taking  thought.  The  Hall 
\  Caines,    the    Miss    Corellis,    and    the    Mrs. 

Humphry  Wards  are  born,  not  made.  It 
may  seem  odd,  even  to  a  publisher,  that  they 
write  as  they  do  write — by  sheer  glad 
instinct.  But  it  is  so.  The  second  thing  is 
that  when  a  novelist  has  made  "  his  name 
and  his  market "  by  doing  one  kind  of  thing 
he  can't  successfully  go  ofif  at  a  tangent  and 
do  another  kind  of  thing.  To  make  the 
largest  possible  amount  of  money  out  of  an 
artist  the  only  way  is  to  leave  him  alone. 
When  will  publishers  grasp  this?  To  make 
the  largest  possible  amount  of  money  out  of 
an  imitative  hack,  the  only  way  is  to  leave 

206 


PUBLISHERS  AND  AUTHORS 

him    alone.     When    will    publishers    grasp  lo  Mar.  'lo 
that  an  imitative  hack  knows  by  the  grace 
of  God  forty  times  more  about  the  public 
taste  than  a  publisher  knows? 


207 


TOURGENIEFF  AND 
DOSTOIEVSKY 

31  Mar.  '10  I  HAVE  read  with  very  great  interest 
Mr.  Maurice  Baring's  new  volume  about 
Russia,  "  Landmarks  in  Russian  Literature  " 
(Methuen,  6s.  net).  It  deals  with  Gogol, 
Tourgenieff,  Dostoievsky,  Tolstoy,  and 
Tchehkoff.  It  is  unpretentious.  It  is  not 
"  literary."  I  wish  it  had  been  more 
literary.  Mr.  Baring  seems  to  have  a 
greater  love  for  literature  than  an  under- 
standing knowledge  of  it.  He  writes  like  a 
whole-hearted  amateur,  guided  by  common- 
sense  and  enthusiasm,  but  not  by  the 
delicate  perceptions  of  an  artist.  He  often 
says  things,  or  says  things  in  a  manner, 
which  will  assuredly  annoy  the  artist. 
Thus  his  curt,  conventional  remarks  about 
Zola  might  have  been  composed  for  a  leading 
article  in  the  Morning  Post,  instead  of  for  a 
volume  of  literary  criticism.  Nevertheless, 
I  cannot  be  cross  with  him.  In  some  ways 
his  book  is  illuminating.  I  mean  that  it  has 
illuminated  my  darkness.  His  chapters  on 
Russian  characteristics  and  on  realism  in 
Russian  literature  are  genuinely  valuable. 
In  particular  he  makes  me  see  that  even 
French   realism   is   an    artificial   and   feeble 

208 


TOURGENIEFF  AND  DOSTOIEVSKY 

growth    compared    with    the     spontaneous,  31  Mar.  '10 

unconscious    realism    of    the    Russians.     If 

you   talked  to   Russians   about  realism   they 

probably  would  not  know  quite  what  you 

meant.    And  when  you  had  at  length  made 

them     understand     they     would     certainly 

exclaim:    "Well,  of  course!     But  why  all 

this  fuss  about  a  simple  matter?  "     Only  a 

man  who  knows  Russia  very  well,  and  who 

has    a    genuine    affection    for    the    Russian 

character,  could  have  written  these  chapters. 

And  I  am  ready  to  admit  that  they  are  more 

useful  than  many  miles  of  appreciation  in  the 

delicate  balancing  manner  of  say  an  Arthur 

Symons. 

Mr.  Baring  raises  again  the  vexed  question 
of  Tourgeniefif's  position.  It  is  notorious 
that  Tourgenieff  is  much  more  highly 
appreciated  outside  Russia  than  in  it. 
One  is,  of  course,  tempted  to  say  that  Rus- 
sians cannot  judge  their  own  authors,  for 
there  is  a  powerful  and  morally  over- 
whelming cult  for  Tourgenieff  in  France, 
Germany  and  England.  I  have  myself  said, 
sworn,  and  believed  that  "  On  the  Eve  "  is 
the  most  perfect  example  of  the  novel  yet 
produced  in  any  country.  And  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  am  yet  prepared  to  go  back  on 

209 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

31  Mar.  '10  myself.  However,  it  is  absurd  to  argue  that 
Russians  cannot  judge  their  own  authors. 
The  best  judges  of  Russian  authors  must  be 
Russians.  Think  of  the  ridiculous  miscon- 
ceptions about  English  literature  by  first- 
class  foreign  critics!  .  .  .  But  I  am  con- 
vinced that  Mr.  Baring  goes  too  far  in  his 
statement  of  the  Russian  estimate  of  Tour- 
geniefif.  He  says  that  educated  Russian 
opinion  would  no  more  think  of  comparing 
Tourgenieff  with  Dostoievsky  than  educated 
English  opinion  would  think  of  comparing 
Charlotte  Yonge  with  Charlotte  Bronte. 
This  is  absurd.  Whatever  may  be  Tour- 
genieff's  general  inferiority  (and  I  do  not 
admit  it),  he  was  a  great  artist  and  a  com- 
plete artist.  And  he  was  a  realist.  There 
is  all  earth  and  heaven  between  the  two 
Charlottes.  One  was  an  artist,  the  other 
was  an  excellent  Christian  body  who  pro- 
duced stories  that  have  far  less  relation  to 
life  than  Frith's  "  Derby  Day "  has  to  the 
actual  fact  and  poetry  of  Epsom.  If  Mr. 
Baring  had  bracketed  Tourgenieff  with 
Charlotte  Bronte  and  Dostoievsky  with  the 
lonely  Emily,  I  should  have  credited  him 
with  a  subtle  originality. 


210 


TOURGENIEFF  AND  DOSTOIEVSKY 

About  half  of  the  book  is  given  to  a  31  Mar.  '10 
straightforward,  detailed,  homely  account  of 
Dostoievsky,  his  character,  genius,  and 
works.  It  was  very  much  wanted  in 
English.  I  thought  I  had  read  all  the  chief 
works  of  the  five  great  Russian  novelists,  but 
last  year  I  came  across  one  of  Dostoiev- 
sky's, "The  Brothers  Karamazoff,"  of  which 
I  had  not  heard.  It  was  a  French  transla- 
tion, in  two  thick  volumes.  I  thought  it 
contained  some  of  the  greatest  scenes  that  I 
had  ever  encountered  in  fiction,  and  I  at 
once  classed  it  with  Stendhal's  "  Chartreuse 
de  Parme "  and  Dostoievsky's  "  Crime  and 
Punishment "  as  one  of  the  supreme  marvels 
of  the  world.  Nevertheless,  certain  aspects 
of  it  puzzled  me.  When  I  mentioned  it  to 
friends  I  was  told  that  I  had  gone  daft  about 
it,  and  that  it  was  not  a  major  work.  Hap- 
pening to  meet  Mrs.  Garnett,  the  never- 
to-be-sufficiently-thanked  translator  of  Tour- 
geniefif  and  of  Tolstoy,  I  made  inquiries 
from  her  about  it,  and  she  said:  "  It  is  his 
masterpiece."  We  were  then  separated  by  a 
ruthless  host,  with  my  difficulties  unsolved. 
I  now  learn  from  Mr.  Baring  that  the 
French  translation  is  bad  and  incomplete, 
and  that  the  original  work,  vast  as  it  is,  is 
only    a    preliminary    fragment    of    a    truly 

211 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

31  Mar.  '10  enormous  novel  which  death  prevented 
Dostoievsky  from  finishing.  Death,  this  is 
yet  another  proof  of  your  astonishing 
clumsiness!  The  scene  with  the  old  monk 
at  the  beginning  of  "  The  Brothers  Kara- 
mazofif "  is  in  the  very  grandest  heroical 
manner.  There  is  nothing  in  either  English 
or  French  prose  literature  to  hold  a  candle 
to  it.  And  really  I  do  not  exaggerate! 
There  is  probably  nothing  in  Russian  litera- 
ture to  match  it,  outside  Dostoievsky.  It 
ranks,  in  my  mind,  with  the  scene  towards 
the  beginning  of  "  Crime  and  Punishment," 
when  in  the  inn  the  drunken  father  relates 
his  daughter's  "  shame."  These  pages  are 
unique.  They  reach  the  highest  and  most 
terrible  pathos  that  the  novelist's  art  has  ever 
reached.  And  if  an  author's  reputation 
among  people  of  taste  depended  solely  on  his 
success  with  single  scenes  Dostoievsky  would 
outrank  all  other  novelists,  if  not  all  poets. 
But  it  does  not.  Dostoievsky's  works — all 
of  them — have  grave  faults.  They  have 
especially  the  grave  fault  of  imperfection, 
that  fault  which  Tourgenieff  and  Flaubert 
avoided.  They  are  tremendously  unlevel, 
badly  constructed  both  in  large  outline  and 
in  detail.  The  fact  is  that  the  difficulties 
under  which  he  worked  were  too  much  for 

212 


TOURGENIEFF  AND  DOSTOIEVSKY 

the  artist  in  him.  Mr.  Baring  admits  these  5/  Mar.  '10 
faults,  but  he  does  not  sufficiently  dwell  on 
them.  He  glances  at  them  and  leaves  them, 
with  the  result  that  the  final  impression 
given  by  his  essay  is  apt  to  be  a  false  one. 
Nobody,  perhaps,  ever  understood  and  sym- 
pathized with  human  nature  as  Dostoiev- 
sky did.  Indubitably  nobody  ever  with  the 
help  of  God  and  good  luck  ever  swooped  so 
high  into  tragic  grandeur.  But  the  man  had 
fearful  falls.  He  could  not  trust  his  wings. 
He  is  an  adorable,  a  magnificent,  and  a  pro- 
foundly sad  figure  in  letters.  He  is  anything 
you  like.  But  he  could  not  compass  the 
calm  and  exquisite  soft  beauty  of  "  On  the 
Eve  "  or  "  A  House  of  Gentlefolk."    .    ..    ... 


213 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

14  July  '10  Mr.  John  Galsworthy,  whose  volume  of 
sketches,  "A  Motley,"  is  now  in  process  of 
being  reviewed,  is  just  finishing  another 
novel,  which  will  no  doubt  be  published 
in  the  autumn.  That  novels  have  to  be 
finished  is  the  great  disadvantage  of  the 
novelist's  career — otherwise,  as  everyone 
knows,  a  bed  of  roses,  a  velvet  cushion,  a 
hammock  under  a  ripe  pear  tree.  To  begin 
a  novel  is  delightful.  To  finish  it  is  the  devil. 
Not  because,  on  parting  with  his  characters, 
the  novelist's  heart  is  torn  by  the  grief  which 
Thackeray  described  so  characteristically. 
(The  novelist  who  has  put  his  back  into  a 
novel  will  be  ready  to  kick  the  whole  crowd 
of  his  characters  down  the  front-door  steps.) 
But  because  the  strain  of  keeping  a  long 
book  at  the  proper  emotional  level  through 
page  after  page  and  chapter  after  chapter  is 
simply  appalling,  and  as  the  end  approaches 
becomes  almost  intolerable.  I  have  just 
finished  a  novel  myself;  my  nineteenth,  I 
think.  So  I  know  the  rudiments  of  the 
experience.  For  those  in  peril  on  the  sea, 
and  for  novelists  finishing  novels,  prayers 
ought  to  be  offered  up. 

214 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

In  accordance  with  my  habit  of  re-reading  14  July  '10 
books  which  have  uncommonly  interested 
me  on  first  perusal,  I  have  recently  read 
again  "A  Man  of  Property."  Well,  it 
stands  the  test.  It  is  certainly  the  most  per- 
fect of  Mr.  Galsworthy's  novels  up  to  now. 
Except  for  the  confused  impression  caused 
by  the  too  rapid  presentation  of  all  the 
numerous  members  of  the  Forsyte  family 
at  the  opening,  it  has  practically  no  faults. 
In  construction  it  is  unlike  any  other  novel 
that  I  know,  but  that  is  not  to  say  it  has  no 
constructive  design — as  some  critics  have 
said.  It  is  merely  to  say  that  it  is  original. 
There  are  no  weak  parts  in  the  book,  no 
places  where  the  author  has  stopped  to 
take  his  breath  and  wipe  his  brow.  The 
tension  is  never  relaxed.  This  is  one  of  the 
two  qualities  without  which  a  novel  cannot 
be  first-class  and  great.  The  other  is  the 
quality  of  sound,  harmonious  design.  Both 
qualities  are  exceedingly  rare,  and  I  do  not 
know  which  is  the  rarer.  In  the  actual 
material  of  the  book,  the  finest  quality  is  its 
extraordinary  passionate  cruelty  towards 
the  oppressors  as  distinguished  from  the 
oppressed.  That  oppressors  should  be 
treated  with  less  sympathy  than  oppressed 
is  contrary  to  my  own  notion  of  the  ethics  of 

215 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

14  July  '10  creative  art,  but  the  result  in  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy's work  is  something  very  pleasing. 
Since  "A  Man  of  Property,"  the  idea  that 
the  creator  of  the  universe,  or  the  Original 
Will,  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it  or  him, 
made  a  grotesque  fundamental  mistake  in 
the  conception  of  our  particular  planet  has 
apparently  gained  much  ground  in  Mr. 
Galsworthy's  mind.  I  hope  that  this  ground 
may  slowly  be  recovered  by  the  opposite 
idea.  Anyhow,  the  Forsyte  is  universal. 
We  are  all  Forsytes,  just  as  we  are  all 
Willoughby  Patternes,  and  this  incontro- 
vertible statement  implies  inevitably  that 
Mr.  Galsworthy  is  a  writer  of  the  highest 
rank.  I  re-read  ''  The  Man  of  Property " 
immediately  after  re-reading  Dostoievsky's 
"  Crime  and  Punishment,"  and  immediately 
before  re-reading  Bjornson's  "  Arne."  It 
ranks  well  with  these  European  masterpieces. 


216 


SUPPRESSIONS  IN  "  DE 
PROFUNDIS  " 

Some  time  ago  I  pointed  out  (what  was  21  My  '10 
to  me  a  new  discovery)  that  certain  passages 
in  the  German  translation  of  Oscar  Wilde's 
"  De  Profundis  "  did  not  exist  in  the  original 
English  version  as  printed;  and  I  suggested 
that  Mr.  Robert  Ross,  Oscar  Wilde's  faithful 
literary  executor,  should  explain.  He  has 
been  good  enough  to  do  so.  He  informs  me 
that  the  passages  in  question  were  restored 
in  the  edition  of  "  De  Profundis"  (the  thir 
teenth)  in  Wilde's  Complete  Works,  issued 
by  Messrs.  Methuen  to  a  limited  public, 
and  that  they  have  been  retained  in  the 
fourteenth  (separate)  edition,  of  which  Mr. 
Ross  sends  me  a  copy.  I  possessed  only  the 
first  edition.  I  do  not  want  to  part  with 
it,  but  the  fourteenth  is  a  great  deal  more 
interesting  than  the  first.  It  contains  a  dedi- 
catory letter  by  Mr.  Ross  to  Dr.  Max  Meyer- 
feld  ("  But  for  you  I  do  not  think  the  • 
book  would  ever  have  been  published"), 
and  some  highly  interesting  letters  written 
in  Reading  Gaol  by  Wilde  to  Mr.  Ross 
(which  had  previously  been  published  in 
Germany).  In  the  course  of  this  dedicatory 
letter,   Mr.    Ross   says:    "In   sending   copy 

217 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

21  July  'lo  to  Messrs.  Methuen  (to  whom  alone  I  sub- 
mitted it)  I  anticipated  refusal,  as  though 
the  work  were  my  own.  A  very  distinguished 
man  of  letters  who  acted  as  their  reader 
advised,  however,  its  acceptance,  and  urged, 
in  view  of  the  uncertainty  of  its  reception, 
the  excision  of  certain  passages,  to  which  I 
readily  assented." 

This  explains  clearly  enough  the  motive 
for  suppressing  the  passages.  But  even 
after  making  allowance  for  the  natural 
timidity  and  apprehensiveness  of  the  pub- 
lisher's reader,  I  cannot  quite  understand 
why  those  particular  passages  were  cut  out. 
Here  is  one  of  them :  "  I  had  genius,  a 
distinguished  name,  high  social  position, 
brilliancy,  intellectual  daring;  I  made  art 
a  philosophy  and  philosophy  an  art.  I 
altered  the  minds  of  men  and  the  colours  of 
things;  there  was  nothing  I  said  or  did  that 
did  not  make  people  wonder.  I  took  the 
drama,  the  most  objective  form  known  to 
art,  and  made  it  as  personal  a  mode  of 
expression  as  the  lyric  or  sonnet;  at  the 
same  time  I  widened  its  range  and  enriched 
its  characteristics.  Drama,  novel,  poem  in 
prose,  poem  in  rhyme,  subtle  or  fantastic 
dialogue,  whatever  I  touched  I  made  beau- 

218 


SUPPRESSIONS 

tiful  in  a  new  mode  of  beauty.  To  truth  21  July  '10 
itself  I  gave  what  is  false  no  less  than  what 
is  true  as  its  rightful  province,  and  showed 
that  the  false  and  the  true  are  merely  forms 
of  intellectual  existence.  I  treated  art  as 
the  supreme  reality  and  life  as  a  mere  mode 
of  fiction.  I  awoke  the  imagination  of  my 
century  so  that  it  created  myth  and  legend 
around  me.  I  summed  up  all  systems  in  a 
phrase,  and  all  existence  in  an  epigram. 
Along  with  these  things  I  had  things  that 
were  different.  But  I  let  myself  be  lured 
into  long  spells  of  senseless  and  sensual  ease." 
It  is  difficult  to  see  anything  in  the  factitious 
but  delightful  brilliance  of  this  very  char- 
acteristic swagger  that  could  have  endan- 
gered the  book's  reception. 

Mr.  Ross's  letter  to  me  concludes  thus: 
"  *  De  Profundis,'  however,  even  in  its  pres- 
ent form,  is  only  a  fragment.  The  whole 
work  could  not  be  published  in  the  life- 
time of  the  present  generation."  This  makes, 
within  a  month,  the  third  toothsome  dish 
as  to  which  I  have  had  the  exasperating 
news  that  it  is  being  reserved  for  that  spoiled 
child,  posterity.  I  may  say,  however,  that 
I  do  not  regard  "  De  Profundis "  as  one  of 
Wilde's    best    books.      I    was    disappointed 

219 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

21  July  'lo  with  it.  It  is  too  frequently  insincere,  and 
the  occasion  was  not  one  for  pose.  And  it 
has  another  fault.  I  happened  to  meet 
M.  Henry  Davray  several  times  while  he 
was  translating  the  book  into  French.  M. 
Davray's  knowledge  of  English  is  profound, 
and  I  was  accordingly  somewhat  discon- 
certed when  one  day,  pointing  to  a  sentence 
in  the  original,  he  asked,  "  What  does  that 
mean?"  I  thought,  "Is  Davray  at  last 
'stumped'?"  I  examined  the  sentence  with 
care,  and  then  answered,  "  It  doesn't  mean 
anything."  "  I  thought  so,"  said  M.  Dav- 
ray. We  looked  at  each  other.  M.  Davray 
was  an  old  friend  of  Wilde's,  and  was 
one  of  the  dozen  men  who  attended  his 
desolating  funeral.  And  I  was  an  enthusi- 
astic admirer  of  Wilde's  style  at  its  best. 
We  said  no  more.  But  a  day  or  two  later 
a  similar  incident  happened,  and  yet  an- 
other. 

Wilde's  letters  to  Mr.  Ross  from  prison 
are  extremely  good.  They  begin  sombrely, 
but  after  a  time  the  wit  lightens,  and 
towards  the  end  it  is  playing  continually. 
The  first  gleam  of  it  is  this:  "  I  am  going  to 
take  up  the  study  of  German.  Indeed  prison 
seems   to   be   the   proper   place   for   such   a 

220 


SUPPRESSIONS 

study."  On  the  subject  of  the  natural  life,  21  July  '10 
he  says  a  thing  which  is  exquisitely  wise: 
"  Stevenson's  letters  are  most  disappointing 
also.  I  see  that  romantic  surroundings  are 
the  worst  surroundings  for  a  romantic 
writer.  In  Gower  Street  Stevenson  would 
have  written  a  new  '  Trois  Mousquetaires,' 
in  Samoa  he  writes  letters  to  the  Times  about 
Germans.  I  see  also  the  traces  of  a  terrible 
strain  to  lead  a  natural  life.  To  chop  wood 
with  any  advantage  to  oneself  or  profit  to 
others,  one  should  not  be  able  to  describe  the 
process.  In  point  of  fact  the  natural  life  is 
the  unconscious  life.  Stevenson  merely  ex- 
tended the  sphere  of  the  artificial  by  taking 
to  digging.  The  whole  dreary  book  has  given 
me  a  lesson.  If  I  spend  my  future  life  read- 
ing Baudelaire  in  a  cafe  I  shall  be  leading 
a  more  natural  life  than  if  I  take  to  hedger's 
work  or  plant  cacao  in  mud-swamps." 


221 


HOLIDAY  READING 

4  Aug  'lo  I  CAME  away  for  a  holiday  without  any 
books,  except  one,  and  I  cut  ofif  the  whole 
of  my  supply  of  newspapers,  except  one. 
As  a  rule  my  baggage  is  most  injurious  to 
railway  porters,  and  on  the  Continent  very 
costly,  because  of  the  number  of  books  and 
neckties  it  contains.  I  wear  the  neckties, 
but  I  never  read  the  books.  I  am  always 
meaning  to  read  them,  but  something  is 
always  preventing  me.  Before  starting,  the 
awful  thought  harasses  me:  Supposing  I 
wanted  to  read  and  I  had  naught!  This 
time  I  decided  that  it  would  be  agreeably 
perilous  to  run  the  risk.  The  unique  book 
which  I  packed  was  the  sixth  volume  of 
Montaigne  in  the  Temple  Classics  edition. 
We  are  all  aware,  from  the  writings  of 
Mr.  A.  B.  Walkley,  Sir  William  Robertson 
Nicoll,  Mr.  Hall  Caine  and  others,  what  a 
peerless  companion  is  Montaigne;  how  in 
Montaigne  there  is  a  page  to  suit  every  mood ; 
how  the  most  diverse  mentalities — the  pious, 
the  refined,  the  libertine,  the  philosophic, 
the  egoistic,  the  altruistic,  the  merely  silly — 
may  find  in  him  the  food  of  sympathy.  I 
knew  I  should  be  all  right  with  Montaigne. 
I  invariably  read  in  bed  of  a  night  (unless 

222 


HOLIDAY  READING 

paying  in  my  temples  the  price  of  excess),  4  Aug  '10 
and  nobody  who  ever  talked  about  bed- 
books  has  succeeded  in  leaving  out  Mon- 
taigne from  his  list.  My  luggage  cost  much 
less  than  usual.  I  positively  looked  forward 
to  reading  Montaigne.  Yet  when  the  first 
night  in  a  little  French  hotel  arrived,  and 
I  had  perched  the  candle  on  the  top  of  the 
ewer  on  the  night-table  in  order  to  get  it 
high  enough,  I  discovered  that  instead  of 
Montaigne  I  was  going  to  read  a  verbatim 
account  of  a  poisoning  trial  in  the  Paris 
Journal.  That  is  about  three  weeks  ago, 
and  I  have  not  yet  opened  my  Montaigne, 
I  have,  however,  talked  enthusiastically  to 
sundry  French  people  about  Montaigne,  and 
explained  to  them  that  Florio's  translation 
is  at  least  equal  to  the  original,  and  that 
Montaigne  is  truly  beloved  and  understood 
in  England  alone. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  of  my  holiday, 
in  another  small  provincial  town  in  central 
France,  where  I  was  improving  my  mind  and 
fitting  myself  for  cultured  society  in  London 
by  the  contemplation  of  cathedrals,  that  I 
came  across,  in  a  draper's  and  fancy-ware 
shop  a  remaindered  stock  of  French  fiction, 
at  43^  d.  the  volume.     Among  these,  to  my 

223 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Aug  'lo  intense  disgust,  was  a  translation  of  a  little 
thing  of  my  own,  and  also  a  collection  of 
stories  by  Leonide  Andreief,  translated  by 
Serger  Persky,  and  published  by  Le  Monde 
Illustre.  Although  I  already  possessed,  in 
Montaigne,  sustenance  for  months,  I  bought 
this  volume,  and  at  once  read  it.  A  small 
book  by  Andreief,  "  The  Seven  that  were 
Hanged,"  was  published  in  England — last 
year,  I  think — by  Mr.  Fifield.  It  received  a 
very  great  deal  of  praise,  and  was,  in  fact, 
treated  as  a  psychological  masterpiece.  I 
was  disappointed  with  it  myself,  for  the  very 
simple  reason  that  I  found  it  tedious.  I  had 
difficulty  in  finishing  it.  I  gather  that  An- 
dreief has  a  great  reputation  in  Russia, 
sharing  with  Gorky  the  leadership  of  the 
younger  school.  Well,  I  don't  suppose  that 
I  shall  ever  read  any  more  Gorky,  who  has 
assuredly  not  come  up  to  expectations. 
There  are  things  among  the  short  stories  of 
Andreief  (the  volume  is  entitled  "  Nou- 
velles ")  which  are  better  than  "  The  Seven 
that  were  Hanged."  "  The  Governor,"  for 
example,  is  a  pretty  good  tale,  obviously 
written  under  the  influence  of  Tolstoy's 
"  Death  of  Ivan  Ilyitch " ;  and  a  story 
about  waiting  at  a  railway  station  remains 
in  the  mfnd  not  unpleasantly.     But  the  best 

224 


HOLIDAY  READING 

of  the  book  is  second-rate,  vitiated  by  4  Aug  '10 
diffuseness,  imitativeness  and  the  usual 
sentimentality.  Neither  Andreief  nor  Gorki 
will  ever  seriously  count.  Neither  of  them 
comes  within  ten  leagues  of  the  late 
Anton  Tchehkoff.  I  think  there  must  be 
young  novelists  alive  in  Russia  who  are  su- 
perior to  these  two  alleged  leaders.  I  have, 
in  fact,  heard  talk  of  one  Apouktine,  in 
this  country  of  France,  and  I  am  taking  meas- 
ures to  read  him. 

When  at  length  I  settled  down  in  a  small 
hotel  in  a  village  on  the  further  coast  of 
Brittany,  I  had  read  nothing  but  Andreief 
and  criminal  processes.  Nobody  else  in  the 
hotel,  save  one  old  lady,  read  anything  but 
criminal  processes.  It  is  true  that  it  was  a 
sadly  vulgar  hotel.  My  fellow-guests  were 
mainly  employees  who  had  escaped  for  a 
fortnight  from  the  big  Paris  shops.  In  par- 
ticular there  was  a  handsome  young  woman 
from  the  fur  department  of  the  Grands 
Magasins  du  Louvre,  who  (weather  per- 
mitting) spent  half  her  morning  in  a 
kimono  at  her  bedroom  window  while  her 
husband  (perfumery  department)  discussed 
patriotism  and  feminism  in  the  cafe  below. 
When   I   remember  the   spectacle,   which   I 

225 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

4  Aug  'jo  have  often  seen,  of  the  staff  of  the  Grands 
Magasins  du  Louvre  trooping  into  its  prison 
at  7.30  a.m.  to  spend  a  happy  day  of  eleven 
and  a  half  hours  in  humouring  the  whims 
of  the  great  shopping  classes,  I  was  charmed 
to  watch  this  handsome  and  vapid  creature 
idling  away  whole  hours  at  her  window 
and  enjoying  the  gaze  of  persons  like  myself. 
She  never  read.  Once  when  I  had  a  bit 
of  a  discussion  with  her  husband  at  lunch 
upon  an  intellectual  matter,  she  got  up 
and  walked  away  with  an  impatient  ges- 
ture of  disdain,  as  if  to  say:  "What  has 
all  this  got  to  do  with  Love?"  Her  hus- 
band never  read,  either.  Their  friends  did 
not  read,  not  even  newspapers.  But  another 
couple  had  an  infant,  aged  three,  and  this 
infant  had  a  rather  fierce  grandmother,  and 
this  grandmother  read  a  great  deal.  She 
and  I  alone  stood  for  literature.  She  would 
stay  at  home  with  the  infant  while  the  inter- 
mediate generation  was  away  larking.  She 
was  always  reading  the  same  book.  It  was 
a  thick  book,  with  a  glossy  coloured  cover 
displaying  some  scene  in  which  homicide  and 
passion  were  mingled;  its  price,  new,  was 
sixpence  halfpenny,  and  its  title  was  simply 
and  magnificently,  "  Borgia!  "  with  a  note  of 
exclamation  after  it.  She  confined  herself 
'    226 


HOLIDAY  READING 

to  "Borgia!"  She  was  tireless  with  "  Bor-  4  Aug  '10 
gial"  She  went  home  to  Paris  reading 
"Borgia!"  It  was  a  shocking  hotel,  so 
different  from  the  literary  hotels  of  Switzer- 
land, Bournemouth,  and  Scarborough,  where 
all  the  guests  read  Meredith  and  Walter 
Pater.  I  ought  to  have  been  ashamed  to  be 
seen  in  such  a  place.  My  only  excuse  is  that 
the  other  two  hotels  in  the  remote  little 
village  were  just  as   bad,  probably  worse. 


227    ^ 


THE  BRITISH  ACADEMY  OF 
LETTERS 

'jo  a  correspondent  writes  angrily  to  me 
because  I  have  not  written  angrily  about  the 
list  of  authors  recently  put  forward  as 
Academicians  of  the  proposed  new  British 
Academy  of  Letters.  The  fact  is  that  the 
entire  scheme  of  the  British  Academy  of 
Letters  had  a  near  shave  of  escaping  my 
attention  altogether.  I  only  heard  of  it  by 
accident,  being  away  on  a  holiday  in  a  land 
where  they  have  had  enough  of  academies. 
But  for  the  miracle  of  a  newspaper  found  on 
a  fishing  boat  I  might  not  have  even  known 
what  on  earth  my  correspondent  was  raging 
about.  In  literary  circles  such  as  mine  the 
new  British  Academy  of  Letters  has  not 
been  extensively  advertised.  In  the  main  I 
agree  with  my  correspondent's  criticisms  of 
the  list.  But  I  must  say  that  his  ire  shows 
a  certain  naivete.  None  but  a  young  and 
trustful  man  could  have  expected  the  list  to 
be  otherwise  than  profoundly  and  utterly 
grotesque.  A  list  of  creative  artists  that  did 
not  suffer  acutely  from  this  defect  could 
only  be  compiled  by  creative  artists  them- 
selves. Not  all,  and  not  nearly  all,  creative 
artists    would    be    qualified    to    sit    on    the 

228 


BRITISH  ACADEMY  OF  LETTERS 

compiling  committee,  but  nobody  who  was  i8  Aug.  'lo 
not  a  creative  artist  would  be  qualified.  The 
rest  of  the  world  has  no  sure  ground  of  judg- 
ment, for  the  true  critical  faculty  is  insepar- 
able from  the  creative.  The  least  critical 
word  of  the  most  prejudiced  and  ignorant 
creative  artist  is  more  valuable  than  whole 
volumes  writ  by  dilettanti  of  measureless 
refinement  and  erudition.  I  am  not  aware 
of  the  identity  of  the  persons  who  sat  down 
together  and  compiled  the  pleasing  prelim- 
inary list  of  twenty-seven  academicians,  but 
I  am  perfectly  certain  that  the  predominant 
among  them  were  not  original  artists.  The 
artist,  at  the  present  stage  of  social  evo- 
lution, would  as  soon  think  of  worrying 
himself  about  the  formation  of  an  acad- 
emy, as  of  putting  up  for  the  St.  Pan- 
eras  Borough  Council.  He  has  something 
else  to  do.  He  fears  the  deadly  contacts 
with  those  prim,  restless,  and  tedious  dilet- 
tanti. And  of  course  he  knows  that 
academies  are  the  enemies  of  originality 
and   progress. 

That  list  was  undoubtedly  sketched  out 
by  a  coterie  of  dilettanti.  London  swarms 
with  the  dilettanti  of  letters.  They  do  not 
belong  to  the  criminal  classes,  but  their  good 

229 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i8  Aug.  'lo  intentions,  their  culture,  their  judiciousness, 
and  their  infernal  cheek  amount  perhaps  to 
worse  than  arson  or  assault.  Their  attitude 
towards  the  creative  artist  is  always  one  of 
large,  tolerant  pity.  They  honestly  think 
that  if  only  the  artist  knew  his  business  as 
they  know  his  business,  if  only  he  had  their 
discernment  and  impartiality,  and  if  only 
he  wasn't  so  confoundedly  ignorant  and  vio- 
lent— how  different  he  would  be,  how  much 
nicer  and  better,  how  much  more  effective! 
They  are  eternally  ready  to  show  an  artist 
where  he  is  wrong  and  what  he  ought 
to  do  in  order  to  obtain  their  laudations 
unreserved.  In  a  personal  encounter,  they 
will  invariably  ride  over  him  like  a  regi- 
ment of  polite  cavalry,  because  they  are 
accustomed  to  personal  encounters.  They 
shine  at  tea,  at  dinner,  and  after  dinner. 
They  talk  more  easily  than  he  does,  and 
write  more  easily  too.  They  can  express 
themselves  more  readily.  And  they  know 
such  a  deuce  of  a  lot.  And  they  can 
balance  pros  and  cons  with  astonishing 
virtuosity.  The  Press  is  their  washpot. 
And  they  are  influential  in  other  places. 
They  can  get  pensions  for  their  favourites. 
They  know  the  latest  methods  of  pulling  an 
artichoke    to    pieces.      And    they    will    say 

230 


BRITISH  ACADEMY  OF  LETTERS 

among  themselves,  forgiving  but  slightly  i^  ^^fJ-  'lo 
pained:  "Yes,  he's  written  a  very  remark- 
able novel,  but  he  doesn't  know  how  to  eat 
an  artichoke."  They  would  be  higher  than 
the  angels  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that,  in 
art,  they  are  exquisitely  and  perfectly 
footling.  They  cannot  believe  this,  the 
public  cannot  believe  it.  Nevertheless, 
every  artist  knows  it  to  be  true.  They  have 
never  done  anything  themselves  except 
fuss   around. 

As  for  us,  we  are  their  hobby.  And  since 
unoriginality  is  their  most  striking  char- 
acteristic, some  of  us  are  occasionally  pretty 
nearly  hobbied  to  extinction  by  them.  In 
every  generation  they  select  some  artist, 
usually  for  reasons  quite  unconnected  with 
art,  and  put  him  exceedingly  high  up  in  a 
niche  by  himself.  And  when  you  name 
his  name  you  must  hush  your  voice,  and 
discussion  ends.  Thus  in  the  present  gen- 
eration, in  letters,  they  have  selected  Joseph 
Conrad,  a  great  artist,  but  not  the  only 
artist  on  the  island.  When  Conrad  is 
mentioned  they  say,  "Ah,  Conrad!"  and 
bow  the  head.  And  in  the  list,  compiled 
presumably  to  represent  what  is  finest  in 
English    literature    at   an    epoch   when    the 

231 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i8  Aug.  'lo  novel  is  admittedly  paramount,  there  are 
half  a  dozen  of  everything  except  novelists. 
There  is  only  one  practising  novelist,  and 
he  is  not  an  Englishman.  I  said  a  moment 
ago  that  the  most  striking  characteristic  of 
the  dilettanti  is  unoriginality.  But  possibly 
a  serene  unhumorousness  runs  it  close. 

The  master-thought  at  the  bottom  of  this 
scheme  is  not  an  Academy  of  British  Letters 
for  literary  artists,  but  an  Academy  of 
British  Letters  for  literary  dilettanti.  A  few 
genuine  artists,  if  the  scheme  blossoms,  w^ill 
undoubtedly  be  found  in  it.  But  that  will 
be  an  accident.  Some  of  the  more  decora- 
tive dilettanti  have  had  a  vision  of  them- 
selves as  academicians.  Hence  the  proposal 
for  an  academy.  In  the  public  mind 
dillettanti  are  apt  to  be  confused  with 
artists.  Indeed,  the  greater  the  artist,  the 
more  likely  the  excellent  public  is  to  regard 
him  as  a  sort  of  inferior  and  unserious 
barbaric  dilettante.  (Fortunately  posterity 
does  not  make  these  mistakes.)  A  genuine 
original  artist  is  bound  to  make  a  sad 
spectacle  of  himself  in  an  academy.  Know- 
ing this,  Anatole  France,  the  greatest  man 
in  the  Academie  Frangaise,  never  goes  near 
the  sittings.     He  has  got  from  the  institu- 

232 


BRITISH  ACADEMY  OF  LETTERS 

tion  all  that  advantage  of  advertisement  i8  Aug.  'lo 
which  he  was  legitimately ,  entitled  to  get, 
and  he  has  no  further  use  for  the  Academic 
Fran^aise.  His  contempt  for  it  as  an  artist 
is  not  concealed.  What  can  academicians 
do  except  put  on  a  uniform  and  make  eulo- 
gistic discourses  to  each  other  under  the  eyes 
of  fashionably-attired  American  female  tour- 
ists? The  Authors'  Society  does  more  prac- 
tical good  for  the  art  of  literature  in  a  year 
than  an  Academy  of  Letters  could  do  in 
forty  years. 

The  existing  British  Academy  of  Learning 
may  or  may  not  be  a  dignified  and  serious 
institution.  I  do  not  know.  But  I  see  no 
reason  why  it  should  not  be.  It  has  not 
interested  the  public,  and  it  never  will. 
Advertisement  does  not  enter  into  it  to  any 
appreciable  extent.  Moreover,  it  is  much 
more  difficult  to  be  a  dilettante  of  learning 
than  a  dilettante  of  letters.  You  are  sooner 
found  out.  Further,  learning  can  be  organ- 
ized, and  organized  with  advantage.  Crea- 
tive art  cannot.  All  artistic  academies  are 
bad.  The  one  real  use  of  an  artistic  academy 
is  to  advertise  the  art  which  it  represents, 
to  cause  the  excellent  public  to  think  and 
chatter  about  that  art  and  to  support  it  by 

233 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i8  Aug.  'lo  buying  specimens  of  it.  The  Royal  Academy 
has  admirably  succeeded  in  this  business,  as 
may  be  seen  at  Burlington  Gardens  any 
afternoon  in  the  season.  But  it  has  suc- 
ceeded at  the  price  of  making  itself  gro- 
tesque and  vicious;  and  it  retards,  though 
of  course  it  cannot  stop,  the  progress  of 
graphic  art.  Certain  arts  are  in  need  of 
advertisement.  For  example,  sculpture.  An 
Academy  of  Sculpture  might,  just  now, 
do  some  good  and  little  harm.  But  litera- 
ture is  in  no  need  of  advertisement  in  this 
country.  It  is  advertised  more  than  all  the 
others  arts  put  together.  It  includes  the 
theatre.  It  is  advertised  to  death.  Be  sure 
that  if  it  really  did  stand  in  need  of  advertise- 
ment, no  dilettante  would  have  twice  looked 
at  it.  The  one  point  which  interests  me 
about  the  proposed  academy  is  whether 
uniforms  are  comprised  in  the  scheme. 


234 


UNFINISHED  PERUSALS 

One  of  the  moral  advantages  of  not  being  ^5  ^wgr.  '10 
a  regular  professional,  labelled,  literary 
critic  is  that  when  one  has  been  unable  to 
read  a  book  to  the  end,  one  may  admit  the 
same  cheerfully.  It  often  happens  to  the 
professional  critic  not  to  be  able  to  finish  a 
book,  but  of  course  he  must  hide  the  weak- 
ness, for  it  is  his  business  to  get  to  the  end 
of  books  whether  they  weary  him  or  not. 
It  is  as  much  his  living  to  finish  reading  a 
book  as  it  is  mine  to  finish  writing  a  book. 
Twice  lately  I  have  got  ignominiously 
"  stuck "  in  novels,  and  in  each  case  I 
particularly  regretted  the  sad  breakdown. 
Gabriele  d'Annunzio's  "  Forse  che  si  forse 
che  no  "  has  been  my  undoing.  I  began  it 
in  the  French  version  by  Donatella  Cross 
(Calmann-Levy,  3  frs.  50c.),  and  I  began  it 
with  joy  and  hope.  The  translation,  by  the 
way,  is  very  good.  Whatever  mountebank 
tricks  dAnnunzio  may  play  as  a  human 
being,  he  has  undoubtedly  written  some 
very    great    works.      He     is     an    intensely  ' 

original  artist.  You  may  sometimes  think 
him  silly,  foppish,  extravagant,  or  even 
caddish  (as  in  "II  Fuoco"),  but  you  have  to 
admit    that    the    English    notions    of    what 

235 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

25  Aug.  '10  constitutes  extravagance  or  caddishness  are 
by  no  means  universally  held.  And  any- 
how you  have  to  admit  that  there  is  a  man 
who  really  holds  an  attitude  towards  life, 
who  is  steeped  in  the  sense  of  style,  and 
who  has  a  superb  passion  for  beauty.  Some 
of  d'Annunzio's  novels  were  a  revelation, 
dazzling.  And  who  that  began  even  "  II 
Fuoco "  could  resist  it?  How  adult,  how 
subtle,  how  (in  the  proper  signification) 
refined,  seems  the  sexuality  of  d'Annunzio 
after  the  timid,  gawky,  infantile,  barbaric 
sexuality  of  our  "  island  story "  !  People 
are  not  far  wrong  on  the  Continent  when  they 
say,  as  they  do  say,  that  English  novelists 
cannot  deal  with  an  Englishwoman — or 
could  not  up  till  a  few  years  ago.  They 
never  get  into  the  same  room  with  her. 
They  peep  like  schoolboys  through  the  crack 
of  the  door.  D'Annunzio  can  deal  with  an 
Italian  woman.  He  does  so  in  the  first  part 
of  "  Forse  che  si  forse  che  no."  She  is  only 
one  sort  of  woman,  but  she  is  one  sort — and 
that's  something!  He  has  not  done  many 
things  better  than  the  long  scene  in  the 
Mantuan  palace.  There  is  nothing  to  modern 
British  taste  positively  immoral  in  this  first 
part,  but  it  is  tremendously  sexual.  It  con- 
tains a  description  of  a  kiss — ^just  a  kiss  and 

236 


UNFINISHED  PERUSALS 

nothing  more — that  is  magnificent  and  over-  25  Aug.  '10 

whelming.      You    may   say    that   you    don't 

want     a     magnificent     and     overwhelming 

description  of  a  kiss  in  your  fiction.    To  that 

I   reply  that  I   do  want  it.     Unfortunately 

d'Annunzio  leaves  the  old  palace  and  goes 

out  on  to  the  aviation  ground,  and,  for  me, 

gradually  becomes  unreadable.    The  agonies 

that   I    suffered   night   after   night   fighting 

against    the    wild    tedium    of    d'Annunzio's 

airmanship,   and   determined   that   I   would 

find  out  what  he  was  after  or  perish,  and  in 

the  end  perishing — in  sleep!     To  this  hour 

I  don't  know  for  sure  what  he  was  driving 

at — what   is   the   theme   of   the   book!     But 

if  his  theme  is  what  I  dimly  guess  it  to  be, 

then    the   less    said    about   it   the   better   in 

Britain. 

The  other  book  which  has  engaged  me  in  a 
stand-up  fight  and  floored  me  is  A.  F. 
Wedgwood's  "  The  Shadow  of  a  Titan " 
(Duckworth,  6s.).  For  this  I  am  genuinely 
sorry;  I  had  great  hopes  of  it.  I  was 
seriously  informed  that  "  The  Shadow  of  a 
Titan "  is  a  first-class  thing,  something  to 
make  one  quote  Keats  "  On  First  Reading 
Chapman's  '  Homer.'  "  A  most  extraordinary 
reyiew   of   it   appeared   in    the   Manchester 

237 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

25  Aug.  '10  Guardian,  a  newspaper  not  given  to  facile 
enthusiasms  about  new  writers,  and  a  paper 
which,  on  the  whole,  reviews  fiction  more 
capably  and  conscientiously  than  any  other 
daily  in  the  kingdom.  Well,  I  wouldn't 
care  to  say  anything  more  strongly  in  favour 
of  "  The  Shadow  of  a  Titan  "  than  that  it  is 
clever.  Clever  it  is,  especially  in  its  style. 
The  style  has  the  vulgarly  glittering  clever- 
ness of,  say.  Professor  Walter  Raleigh.  It 
is  exhausting,  and  not  a  bit  beautiful.  The 
author — whoever  he  may  be;  the  name  is 
quite  unfamiliar  to  me,  but  this  is  not  the 
first  time  he  has  held  a  pen — chooses  his 
material  without  originality.  Much  of  it  is 
the  common  material  of  the  library  novel, 
seen  and  handled  in  the  common  way. 
When  I  was  floored  I  had  just  got  to  a  part 
which  disclosed  the  epical  influence  of  Mr. 
Joseph  Conrad.  It  had  all  the  character- 
istics of  Mr.  Conrad  save  his  deep  sense  of 
form  and  his  creative  genius.  .  .  .  How- 
ever, I  couldn't  proceed  with  it.  In  brief, 
for  me,  it  was  dull.  Probably  the  latter  half 
was  much  better,  but  I  couldn't  cut  my  way 
through  to  the  latter  half. 


238 


MR.  A.  C.  BENSON 

I  AM  indebted  to  Mr.  Murray  for  sending  /  Sep.  'lo 
what  is  to  me  a  new  manifestation  of  the 
entirely  precious  activity  of  Mr.  Arthur 
Christopher  Benson.  Mr.  Benson,  in  "  The 
Thread  of  Gold,"  ministers  to  all  that  is 
highest  and  most  sacred  in  the  Mudie 
temperament.  It  is  not  a  new  book;  only 
I  have  been  getting  behindhand.  It  was 
first  printed  in  1905,  and  it  seems  to  have 
been  on  and  off  the  printing-presses  ever 
since,  and  now  Mr.  Murray  has  issued  it, 
very  neatly,  at  a  shilling  net,  so  that  people 
who  have  never  even  been  inside  Mudie's 
may  obtain  it.  I  have  read  the  book  with 
intense  joy,  hugging  myself,  and  every  now 
and  then  running  off  to  a  sister-spirit  with  a 
"I  say,  just  listen  to  /Aij!"  The  opening 
sentence  of  one  of  the  various  introductions 
serves  well  to  display  Mr.  A.  C.  Benson  at 
his  superlative:  "I  have  for  a  great  part 
of  my  life  desired,  perhaps  more  than  I 
have  desired  anything  else,  to  make  a 
beautiful  book;  and  I  have  tried,  perhaps 
too  hard  and  too  often,  to  do  this,  without 
ever  quite  succeeding''''  [my  italics].  Oh, 
triple  modesty!  The  violet-like  beauty  of 
that  word  "quite"!    Thus  he  tried  perhaps 

239 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

I  Sep.  'lo  too  hard  and  too  often  to  produce  something 
beautiful!  Not  that  for  a  moment  I  believe 
the  excellent  Mr.  Benson  to  be  so  fatuous 
as  these  phrases,  like  scores  of  others  in  the 
book,  would  indicate.  It  is  merely  that 
heaven  has  been  pleased  to  deprive  him  of 
any  glimmer  of  humour,  and  that  he  is  the 
victim  of  a  style  which,  under  an  appearance 
of  neatness  and  efficiency  and  honesty,  is 
really  disorderly,  loose,  inefficient  and 
traitorous.  His  pages  abound  in  instances 
of  the  unfaithfulness  of  his  style,  which  is 
continually  giving  him  away  and  making 
him  say  what  he  does  not  in  fact  want  to  say. 
For  example :  "  Such  traces  as  one  sees  in 
the  chapels  of  the  Oxford  Movement.  .  .  . 
Would  be  purely  deplorable  from  the  artistic 
point  of  view,  if  they  did  not  possess  a 
historical  interest."  As  if  historical  interest 
could  make  them  less  deplorable  from 
an  artistic  point  of  view!  It  might  make 
them  less  deplorable  from  another  point  of 
view.  Three  times  he  explains  the  motif  of 
the  book.  Here  is  the  third  and,  at  present, 
the  last  version  of  the  motif:  "That 
whether  we  are  conquerors  or  conquered, 
triumphant  or  despairing,  prosperous  or 
pitiful,  well  or  ailing,  we  are  all  these  things 
through   Him    that   loves   us."      I    seem   to 

240 


MR.  A.  C  BENSON 

remember  that  the  late  Frances  Ridley  i  Sep.  'lo 
Havergal  burst  into  the  world  with  this 
information.  I  recommend  her  works  to 
Mr.  Benson.  In  another  of  the  intro- 
ductions he  says:  "I  think  that  God  put  it 
into  my  heart  to  write  this  book,  and  I  hope 
that  he  [not  He]  will  allow  me  to  persevere." 
Personally  (conceited  though  I  am),  I 
never  put  myself  to  the  trouble  of  formulat- 
ing hopes  concerning  the  Infinite  Purpose, 
hut  if  I  did  I  should  hope  that  He  just  won't. 
Mr.  Benson  proceeds:  "And  yet  indeed  I 
know  that  I  am  not  fit  for  so  holy  a  task." 
Here  we  have  one  of  the  most  diverting 
instances  of  Mr.  Benson's  trick-playing 
style.  He  didn't  mean  that;  he  only  said 
it.  Much,  if  not  most,  of  "  The  Thread  of 
of  Gold "  is  merely  absurd.  Some  of  it 
is  pretentious,  some  of  it  inept.  All  of  it  is 
utterly  banal.  All  of  it  has  the  astounding 
calm  assurance  of  mediocrity.  It  is  a 
solemn  thought  that  tens  of  thousands  of 
well-dressed  mortals  alive  and  idle  to-day 
consider  themselves  to  have  been  uplifted 
by  the  perusal  of  this  work.  It  is  also  a 
solemn  thought  that  God  in  His  infinite 
mercy  and  wisdom  is  still  allowing  Mr. 
Benson  to  persevere  in  his  so  holy  task,  thus 
responding  to  Mr.  Benson's  hopes. 

241 


THE  LITERARY  PERIODICAL 

8  Sep.  'lo  I  HAVE  just  had  news  of  a  purely  literary 
paper  which  is  shortly  to  be  started.  I  do 
not  mean  a  paper  devoted  to  literary 
criticisms  chiefly,  but  chiefly  to  creative 
work.  This  will  be  something  of  a  novelty 
in  England.  Its  founders  are  two  men  who 
possess,  happily,  a  practical  acquaintance 
with  publishing.  The  aim  of  the  paper  will 
be  to  print,  and  to  sell,  imaginative  writing 
of  the  highest  character.  Its  purpose  is 
artistic,  and  neither  political  nor  moral. 
Dangers  and  difficulties  lie  before  an  enter- 
prize  of  this  kind.  The  first  and  the 
principal  difficulty  will  be  the  difficulty  of 
obtaining  the  high-class  stuff  in  sufficient 
quantities  to  fill  the  paper.  The  rate  of 
pay  will  not  and  cannot  be  high,  and  authors 
capable  of  producing  really  high-class  stuff 
— I  mean  stuff  high-class  in  execution  as 
well  as  in  intention — are  strangely  keen  on 
getting  the  best  possible  remuneration  for  it. 
Idle  to  argue  that  genuine  artists  ought  to  be 
indifferent  to  money!  They  are  not.  And 
what  is  still  more  curious,  they  will  seldom 
produce  their  best  work  unless  they  really 
do  want  money.  This  is  a  fact  which  will 
stand   against   all   the   sentimental   denyings 

242 


THE  LITERARY  PERIODICAL 

of  dilettanti.  And,  of  course,  genuine  8  Sep.  'lo 
artists  are  quite  right  in  getting  every  cent 
they  can.  The  richest  of  them  don't  get 
enough.  But  even  if  the  rates  of  pay  of  the 
new  organ  were  high,  the  difficulty  would  still 
be  rather  acute,  because  the  whole  mass  of 
really  high-class  stuff  produced  is  relatively 
very  small.  High-class  stuff  is  like  radium. 
And  the  number  of  men  who  can  produce 
it  is  strictly  limited.  There  are  dozens  and 
scores  of  men  who  can  write  stuff  which 
has  all  the  mannerisms  and  external  char- 
acteristics of  high-class  stuff,  but  which 
is  not  high-class.  Extinct  exotic  periodicals, 
such  as  the  Yellow  Book,  the  Savoy,  the 
Dial,  the  Anglo-Saxon,  and  such  publica- 
tions as  the  Neolith,  richly  prove  this. 
What  was  and  is  the  matter  with  all  of  them 
is  literary  priggishness,  and  dullness.  One 
used  to  read  them  more  often  as  a  duty  than 
as  a  pleasure. 

A  great  danger  is  the  inevitable  tendency 
to  disdain  the  public,  and  to  appeal  only  to 
artists.  Artists,  like  washerwomen,  cannot 
live  on  one  another.  Moreover,  nobody 
has  any  right  to  disdain  the  public.  You 
will  find  that,  as  a  general  rule,  the  greatest 
artists   have   managed   to   get   and   to   keep 

243 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

8  Sep.  'lo  on  good  terms  with  the  public.  If  an 
artist  is  clever  enough — if  he  is  not  narrow, 
insolent,  and  unbalanced — he  will  usually 
contrive  while  pleasing  himself  to  please  the 
public,  or  a  public.  It  is  his  business  to  do 
so.  If  he  does  not  do  so  he  proves  himself 
incompetent.  He  is  merely  mumbling  to 
himself.  Just  as  the  finite  connotes  the 
infinite,  so  an  artist  connotes  a  public.  The 
artist  who  says  he  doesn't  care  a  fig  for  the 
public  is  a  liar.  He  may  have  many  admir- 
able virtues,  but  he  is  a  liar.  The  tragedy 
of  all  the  smaller  literary  periodicals  in 
France  is  that  the  breach  between  them  and 
the  public  is  complete.  They  are  unhealthy, 
because  they  have  not  sufficient  force  to 
keep  themselves  alive,  and  they  make  no 
effort  to  acquire  that  force.  They  scorn 
that  force.  They  are  kept  alive  by  private 
subsidies.  A  paper  cannot  be  established 
in  a  fortnight,  but  no  artistic  paper  which 
has  no  reasonable  prospect  of  paying  its 
way  ought  to  continue  to  exist;  for  it 
demonstrates  nothing  but  an  obstinacy 
which  is  ridiculous.  The  first  business  of 
the  editor  of  an  artistic  periodical  is  to 
interest  the  public  in  questions  of  art.  He 
cannot  possibly  convince  them  till  he 
has    interested    them    up    to    the    point    of 

244 


THE  LITERARY  PERIODICAL 

regularly    listening    to    him.      Enthusiastic  8  Sep.  *io 

artists  are  apt  to  forget  this.     It  is  no  use 

being  brilliant   and   conscientious   on   a   tub 

at   a   street   corner   unless   you    can    attract 

some  kind  of  a  crowd.    The  public  has  just 

got  to  be  considered.     You  may  say  that  it 

is  not  easy  to  make  any  public  listen  to  the 

truth   about   anything.     Well,   of   course,   it 

isn't.     But  it  can  be  done  by  tact,  and  tact, 

and  tact. 

I  do  not  think  that  there  is  a  remunerative 
public  in  England  for  any  really  literary 
paper  which  entirely  bars  politics  and  morals. 
England  is  not  an  artistic  country,  in  the 
sense  that  Latin  countries  are  artistic,  and 
no  end  can  be  served  by  pretending  that 
it  is.  Its  serious  interests  are  political  and 
moral.  Personally,  I  fail  to  see  how  politics 
and  morals  can  be  separated  from  art.  I 
should  be  very  sorry  to  separate  my  art 
from  my  politics.  And  I  am  convinced 
that  the  conductors  of  the  new  organ  will 
perceive  later,  if  not  sooner,  that  political 
and  moral  altercations  must  not  be  kept  out 
of  their  columns.  At  any  rate  they  will 
have  to  be  propagandist,  pugilistic,  and  even 
bloodthirsty.  They  will  have  to  formulate 
a  creed,  and  to  try  to  ram  it  down  people's 

245 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

8  Sep.  'lo  throats.  To  print  merely  so  many  square 
feet  of  the  best  obtainable  imaginative  stuff 
and  to  let  the  stuff  speak  for  itself  will 
assuredly  not  suffice  in  this  excellent  country. 

My  mind  returns  to  the  exceeding  difficulty 
of  obtaining  the  right  contributors.  English 
editors  have  never  appreciated  the  impor- 
tance of  this.  As  English  manufacturers  sit 
still  and  wait  for  customers,  so  English 
editors  sit  still  and  wait  for  contributors. 
The  interestingness  of  the  New  Age,  if  I  may 
make  an  observation  which  the  editorial  pen 
might  hesitate  to  make,  is  due  to  the  fact 
that  contributors  have  always  been  searched 
for  zealously  and  indefatigably.  They  have 
been  compelled  to  come  in — sometimes  with 
a  lasso,  sometimes  with  a  revolver,  some- 
times with  a  lure  of  flattery;  but  they  have 
been  captured.  American  editors  are  much 
better  than  English  editors  in  this  supreme 
matter.  The  profound  truth  has  not  escaped 
them  that  good  copy  does  not  as  a  rule  fly 
in  unbidden  at  the  office  window.  They 
don't  idiotically  pretend  that  they  have 
far  more  of  the  right  kind  of  stuff  than  they 
know  what  to  do  with,  as  does  the  medium- 
fatuous  English  editor.  They  cajole.  They 
run  round.    They  hustle.    The  letters  which 

246 


THE  LITERARY  PERIODICAL 

I  get  from  American  editors  are  one  of  the  8  Sep.  'lo 
joys  of  my  simple  life.  They  are  so  un- 
English.  They  write:  "Won't  you  be  good 
enough  to  let  us  hear  from  you?"  Or, 
"  We  are  anxious  [underlined]  to  see  your 
output."  Imagine  that  from  an  English 
editor!  And  they  contrive  to  say  what  they 
mean,  picturesquely.  One  editor  wrote  me: 
"  We  want  material  that  will  hit  the  mark 
without  producing  either  insomnia  or  heart- 
failure."  An  editor  capable  of  such  self- 
expression  endears  himself  at  once  to  any 
possible  contributor.  And,  above  all,  they 
do  not  fear  each  other,  as  ours  do,  nor 
tremble  at  the  thought  of  Mrs.  Grundy 
(I  mean  the  best  ones).  A  letter  which  I 
received  only  a  few  days  ago  ended  thus: 
"  We  are  not  running  the  magazine  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Young  Person,  and  we  are  not 
afraid  of  Realism  so  long  as  it  is  interesting. 
Hoping  to  hear  from  you."  I  lay  these 
paragraphs  respectfully  at  the  feet  of  the 
conductors  of  the  new  paper. 


247 


THE  LENGTH  OF  NOVELS 
22  Sep.  'lo  It  happened  lately  to  a  lady  who  is  one  of 
the  pillars  of  the  British  Weekly  to  state  in 
her  column  of  innocuous  gossip  about 
clothes,  weather,  and  holidays,  that  a 
hundred  thousand  words  or  three  hundred 
and  fifty  ,  pages  was  the  "  comfortable 
limit "  for  a  novel.  I  feel  sure  she  meant  no 
harm  by  it,  and  that  she  attached  but  little 
importance  to  it.  The  thing  was  expressed 
with  a  condescension  which  was  perhaps 
scarcely  becoming  in  a  paragraphist,  but 
such  accidents  will  happen  even  in  the  most 
workmanlike  columns  of  gossip,  and  are  to 
be  forgiven.  Nevertheless,  the  Westminster 
Gazette  has  seized  hold  of  the  paragraph, 
framed  it  in  22-carat  gold,  and  hung  it  up 
for  observation,  and  a  magnificent  summer 
correspondence  has  blossomed  round  about 
it,  to  the  great  profit  of  the  Westminster 
Gazette  which  receives,  gratis,  daily  about  a 
column  and  a  half  of  matter  signed  by 
expensive  names.  Other  papers,  daily  and 
weekly,  have  also  joined  in  the  din  and  the 
fray.  As  the  discussion  is  perfectly  futile, 
I  do  not  propose  to  add  to  it.  In  spite 
of  the  more  or  less  violent  expression  of 
preferences,  nobody  really  cares  whether  a 
novel  is  long  or  short.     In  spite  of  the  fact 

248 


THE  LENGTH  OF  NOVELS 

that  a  certain  type  of  mind,  common  among  22  Sep.  jo 
publishers,  is  always  apt  to  complain  that 
novels  at  a  given  moment  are  either  too 
long  or  too  short,  the  length  of  a  novel  has 
no  influence  whatever  on  its  success  or 
failure.  One  of  the  most  successful  novels 
of  the  present  generation,  "  Ships  that  Pass 
in  the  Night,"  is  barely  60,000  words  long. 
One  of  the  most  successful  novels  of  the 
present  generation,  "  The  Heavenly  Twins," 
is  quite  200,000  words  long.  Both  were  of 
the  right  length  for  the  public.  As  for  the 
mid-Victorian  novels,  most  of  the  corre- 
spondents appear  to  have  a  very  vague 
idea  of  their  length.  It  is  said  they  "  exceed 
200,000  words."  It  would  be  within  the 
mark  to  say  that  they  exceed  400,000  words. 
There  is  not  one  of  them,  however,  that 
would  not  be  tremendously  improved 
by  being  cut  down  to  about  half.  And 
even  then  the  best  of  them  would  not  com- 
pare with  "The  Mayor  of.Casterbridge  "  or 
"  Nostromo,"  or  "  The  Way  of  all  Flesh." 
The  damning  fault  of  all  mid-Victorian 
novels  is  that  they  are  incurably  ugly  and 
sentimental.  Novelists  had  not  yet  dis- 
covered that  the  first  business  of  a  work  of 
art  is  to  be  beautiful,  and  its  second  not  to 
be  sentimental. 

249 


ARTISTS  AND  MONEY 

6  Oct.  'lo  A  MONTH  ago,  a  propos  of  the  difficulties 
of  running  a  high-class  literary  periodical,  I 
wrote  the  following  words:  "Idle  to  argue 
that  genuine  artists  ought  to  be  indifferent  to 
money!  They  are  not.  And  what  is  still 
more  curious,  they  will  seldom  produce  their 
best  work  unless  they  really  do  want 
money."  This  pronouncement  came  at  an 
unfortunate  moment,  which  was  the  very 
moment  when  Mr.  Sampson  happened  to  be 
denying,  with  a  certain  fine  heat,  the  thesis 
of  Lord  Rosebery  that  poverty  is  good  for 
poets.  Somebody  even  quoted  me  against 
Mr.  Sampson  in  favour  of  Lord  Rosebery. 
This  I  much  regret,  and  it  has  been  on  my 
mind  ever  since.  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
impolite  on  the  subject  of  Lord  Rosebery. 
He  is  an  ageing  man,  probably  exacerbated 
by  the  consciousness  of  failure.  At  one 
time — many  years  ago — he  had  his  hours  of 
righteous  enthusiasm.  And  he  has  always 
upheld  the  banner  of  letters  in  a  social 
sphere  whose  notorious  proud  stupidity  has 
been  immemorially  blind  to  the  true  function 
of  art  in  life.  But  if  any  remark  of  Lord 
Rosebery's  at  a  public  banquet  could  fairly 
be  adduced  in  real  support  of  an  argument 

250 


ARTISTS  AND  MONEY 

of  mine,  I  should  be  disturbed.  And,  in  6  Oct.  'lo 
fact,  I  heartily  agreed  with  Mr.  Sampson's 
demolishment  of  Lord  Rosebery's  speech 
about  genius  and  poverty.  Lord  Rosebery 
was  talking  nonsense,  and  as  with  all  his 
faults  he  cannot  be  charged  with  the  stu- 
pidity of  his  class,  he  must  have  known  that 
he  was  talking  nonsense.  The  truth  is  that 
as  the  official  mouthpiece  of  the  nation  he 
was  merely  trying  to  excuse,  in  an  official 
perfunctory  way,  the  inexcusable  behaviour 
of  the  nation  towards  its  artists. 

As  regards  my  own  assertion  that  genuine 
artists  will  seldom  produce  their  best  work 
unless  they  really  do  want  money,  I  fail  to 
see  how  it  conspires  with  Lord  Rosebery's 
assertion.  Moreover,  I  must  explain  that 
I  was  not  thinking  of  poets.  I  was  thinking 
of  prose-writers,  who  do  have  a  chance  of 
making  a  bit  of  money.  Money  has  scarcely 
any  influence  on  the  activity  of  poets, 
because  they  are  aware  that,  no  matter  how 
well  they  succeed,  the  chances  are  a  million 
to  one  against  any  appreciable  monetary 
reward.  An  extreme  lack  of  money  will, 
of  course,  hamper  them,  and  must,  of  course, 
do  harm  to  the  artist  in  them.  An  assured 
plenty   of   money   may   conceivably    induce 

251 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

6  Oct.  'lo  lethargy.  But  the  hope  of  making  money 
by  their  art  will  not  spur  them  on,  for  there 
is  no  hope.  No!  I  ought  to  have  said 
explicitly  at  the  time  that  I  had  in  mind, 
not  poets,  who  by  the  indifference  of  the 
public  are  set  apart  from  money,  but  of 
those  artists  who  have  a  reasonable  oppor- 
tunity of  becoming  public  darlings  and  of 
earning  now  and  then  incomes  which  a 
grocer  would  not  despise.  That  these  latter 
are  constantly  influenced  by  money,  and 
spurred  to  their  finest  efforts  by  the  need 
of  the  money  necessary  for  the  satisfaction 
of  their  tastes,  is  a  fact  amply  proved  by 
the  experience  of  everybody  who  is  on 
intimate  terms  with  them  in  real  life.  It 
almost  amounts  to  common  literary  know- 
ledge.  It  applies  equally  to  the  mediocre 
and  to  the  distinguished  artist.  Those  per- 
sons who  have  not  participated  in  the  pleas- 
ures and  the  pains  of  intimacy  with  distin- 
guished writers  depending  for  a  livelihood 
on  their  pens  can  learn  the  truth  about 
them  by  reading  the  correspondence  of  such 
authors  as  Scott,  Balzac,  Dickens,  de 
Maupassant,  and  Stevenson.  It  is  an  abso- 
lute certainty  that  we  owe  about  half  the 
"  Comedie  Humaine "  to  Balzac's  extrava- 
gant imprudence.     It   is   equally   sure   that 

252 


ARTISTS  AND  MONEY 

Scott's  mania  for  landed  estate  was  respon-  6  Oct.  'lo 
sible  for  a  very  considerable  part  of  his 
artistic  output.  And  so  on.  When  once 
an  artist  has  "  tasted  "  the  money  of  art,  the 
desire  thus  set  up  will  keep  his  genius  hard 
at  work  better  than  any  other  incentive. 
It  occasionally  happens  that  an  artist 
financially  prudent,  after  doing  a  few  fine 
things,  either  makes  or  comes  into  so  much 
money  that  he  is  wealthy  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  Such  a  condition  induces  idleness,  in- 
duces a  disinclination  to  fight  against  artistic 
difficulties.  Naturally!  I  could  give  living 
instances  in  England  to-day.  But  my 
discretion  sends  me  to  France  for  an 
instance.  Take  Frangois  de  Curel.  Francois 
de  Curel  was  writing,  twenty  years  ago, 
dramatic  works  of  the  very  best  kind.  Their 
value  was  acknowledged  by  the  few,  and  it 
remains  permanent.  The  author  is  definitely 
classed  as  a  genius  in  the  history  of  the 
French  theatre.  But  the  verdict  has  not 
yet  been  endorsed  by  the  public.  For  quite  a 
number  of  years  M.  de  Curel  has  produced 
practically  nothing  on  the  stage.  He  has 
preferred  to  withdraw  from  the  battle 
against  the  indifference  of  the  public.  Had 
he  needed  money,  the  hope  of  money  would 
have  forced  him  to  continue  the  battle,  and 

253 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

6  Oct.  'lo  we  should  have  had  perhaps  half  a  dozen 
really  fine  plays  by  Frangois  de  Curel  that 
do  not  at  present  exist.  But  he  did  not 
need  money.  He  is  in  receipt  of  a  large 
income  from   iron  foundries. 


254 


HENRI  BECQUE 

Henri  Becque,  one  of  the  greatest  20  Oct.  '10 
dramatists  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and 
certainly  the  greatest  realistic  French  dra- 
matist, died  at  the  close  of  the  century  in  all 
the  odour  of  obliquity.  His  work  is  now  the 
chief  literary  topic  in  Paris;  it  has  indeed 
rivalled  the  Portuguese  revolution  and  the 
French  railway  strike  as  a  subject  of  con- 
versation among  people  who  talk  like  sheep 
run.  This  dizzy  popularity  has  been  due  to 
an  accident,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  a  triumph 
for  Becque,  who  until  recently  had  won  the 
esteem  only  of  the  handful  of  people  who 
think  for  themselves.  I  should  say  that  no 
first-class  modern  French  author  is  more  per- 
fectly unknown  and  uncared-for  in  England 
than  Henri  Becque.  I  once  met  a  musical 
young  woman  who  had  never  heard  of 
Ibsen  (she  afterwards  married  a  man  with 
twelve  thousand  a  year — such  is  life!),  but 
I  have  met  dozens  and  scores  of  enormously 
up-to-date  persons  who  had  never  heard  of 
Henri  Becque.  The  most  fantastic  and  the 
most  exotic  foreign  plays  have  been  per- 
formed in  England,  but  I  doubt  if  the  Lon- 
don curtain  has  ever  yet  risen  on  a  play  of 
Becque's.      Once    in    Soho,    a    historic    and 

255 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

20  Oct.  'lo  highly  ceremonious  repast  took  place.  I 
entertained  a  personage  to  afternoon  tea  in 
a  restaurant  where  afternoon  tea  had  never 
been  served  before.  This  personage  w^as  the 
President  of  the  Incorporated  Stage  Society. 
He  asked  me  if  I  knew  anything  about  a 
French  play  called  "  La  Parisienne."  I  re- 
plied that  I  had  seen  it  oftener  than  any 
other  modern  play,  and  that  it  was  the 
greatest  modern  play  of  my  acquaintance. 
He  then  enquired  whether  I  would  translate 
it  for  the  Stage  Society.  I  said  I  should  be 
delighted  to  translate  it  for  the  Stage  Society. 
He  expressed  joy  and  said  the  Committee 
would  sit  on  the  project.  I  never  heard  any 
more. 

Becque  wrote  two  absolutely  first-class 
modern  realistic  plays.  One  is  "  La  Pari- 
sienne." The  other  is  "  Les  Corbeaux." 
Once,  when  I  was  in  Paris,  I  saw  exposed 
among  a  million  other  books  in  front  of  the 
window  of  Stock's  shop  near  the  Theatre 
Frangais  a  copy  of  "  Les  Corbeaux."  Open- 
ing it,  I  perceived  that  it  was  an 
example  of  the  first  edition  (1882).  I  asked 
the  price,  and  to  my  horror  the  attendant 
hesitated  and  said  that  he  would  "  see." 
I  feared  the  price  was  going  to  be  fancy. 

256 


HENRI  BECQUE 

He  came  back  and  named  four  francs,  ^o  Oct.  'lo 
adding,  "  It's  our  last  copy."  I  paid  the 
four  francs  willingly.  On  examining  my 
trophy  I  saw  that  it  was  published  by 
Tresse.  Now  Stock  became  Tresse's  part- 
ner before  he  had  that  business  to  himself. 
I  had  simply  bought  the  play  at  the 
original  house  of  its  publication.  And  it 
had  fallen  to  me,  after  some  twenty-five 
years,  to  put  the  first  edition  of  "  Les  Cor- 
beaux  "  out  of  print!  I  went  home  and  read 
the  play  and  was  somewhat  disappointed 
with  it.  I  thought  it  very  fine  in  its  direct 
sincerity,  but  not  on  the  same  plane  as 
"  La  Parisienne." 

Antoine,  founder  of  the  Theatre  Libre, 
director  of  the  Theatre  Antoine  during  bril- 
liant years,  and  now  director  of  the  Odeon 
(which  he  has  raised  from  the  dead),  was 
always  a  tremendous  admirer  of  Becque. 
It  was  through  Antoine  that  Paris  had  such 
magnificent  performances  of  "  La  Pari- 
sienne." He  had  long  expressed  his  inten- 
tion of  producing  "  Les  Corbeaux,"  and 
now  he  has  produced  "  Les  Corbeaux "  at 
the  Odeon,  where  it  has  been  definitely 
accepted  and  consecrated  as  a  masterpiece. 
I   could   not   refrain   from   going   to   Paris 

257 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

20  Oct.  'lo  Specially  to  see  it.  It  was  years  since  I 
had  been  in  the  Odeon.  Rather  brighter, 
perhaps,  in  its  more  ephemeral  decorations, 
but  still  the  same  old-fashioned,  roomy, 
cramped,  provincial  theatre,  with  pit-tier 
boxes  like  the  cells  of  a  prison!  The  audi- 
ence was  good.  It  was  startlingly  good  for 
the  Odeon.  The  play,  too,  at  first  seemed 
old-fashioned — in  externals.  It  has  bits  of 
soliloquies  and  other  dodges  of  technique 
now  demoded.  But  the  first  act  was  not 
half  over  before  the  extreme  modernness 
of  the  play  forced  itself  upon  you.  Tcheh- 
koff  is  not  more  modern.  The  picture  of 
family  life  presented  in  the  first  act  was 
simply  delightful.  All  the  bitterness  was 
reserved  for  the  other  acts.  And  what 
superb  bitterness!  No  one  can  be  so  cruel 
as  Becque  to  a  "  sympathetic "  character. 
He  exposes  every  foolishness  of  the  ruined 
widow;  he  never  spares  her  for  an  instant; 
and  yet  one's  sympathy  is  not  alienated. 
This  is  truth.  This  is  a  play.  I  had  not 
read  the  thing  with  sufficient  imagination, 
with  the  result  that  for  me  it  "  acted " 
much  better  than  it  had  "  read."  Its 
sheer  beauty,  truth,  power,  and  wit  justi- 
fied even  the  great  length  of  the  last  act. 
I    though    Becque    had    continued    to    add 

258 


HENRI  BECQUE 

scenes  to  the  play  after  it  was  essentially  '^  0<^^-  '^^ 
finished.  But  it  was  I  who  was  mistaken, 
not  he.  The  final  scene  began  by  irritating 
and  ended  by  completely  capturing  the 
public.  Teissier,  the  principal  male  part, 
was  played  by  M.  Numes  in  a  manner  which 
amounted  to  genius. 

"  Les  Corbeaux  "  was  originally  produced 
at  the  Theatre  Frangais,  where  it  was  not  a 
success.  All  Becque's  recent  fame  is  due, 
after  Becque,  to  Antoine.  But  now  that 
Antoine  has  done  all  the  hard  work,  Jules 
Claretie,  the  flaccid  director  of  the  Frangais, 
shows  a  natural  desire  to  share  in  the  har- 
vest. Becque  left  a  play  unfinished,  "  Les 
Polichinelles."  Becque's  executor,  M.  Ro- 
baglia,  handed  this  play  to  M.  Henri  de 
Noussanne  to  finish — heaven  knows  why! 
M.  de  Noussanne  has  written  novels  entirely 
bereft  of  importance,  and  he  is  the  editor  of 
"  Gil  Bias,"  a  daily  paper  whose  importance 
it  would  not  be  easy  to  under-estimate;  and 
his  qualifications  for  finishing  a  play  by 
Becque  are  in  the  highest  degree  mysterious. 
The  finished  play  was  to  be  produced  at  the 
Frangais.  The  production  would  have  been 
what  the  French  call  a  solemnity.  But  M. 
Robaglia    suddenly    jibbed.      He    declared 

259 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

20  Oct.  'lo  M.  de  Noussanne's  work  to  be  unworthy, 
and  he  declined  to  permit  the  performance 
of  the  play.  Then  followed  a  grand  and 
complicated  shindy — one  of  those  charming 
Parisian  literary  rows  which  excite  the 
newspapers  for  days!  In  the  end  it  was 
settled  that  neither  M.  de  Noussanne's 
version  nor  any  other  version  of  "  Les 
Polichinelles "  should  ever  be  produced,  but 
that  the  journal  U Illustration,  which  gives 
away  the  text  of  a  new  play  as  a  supple- 
ment about  twice  a  month,  should  give, 
one  week,  Becque's  original  incomplete  ver- 
sion exactly  as  it  stands,  and  M.  de  Nous- 
sanne's completed  version  the  next  week, 
to  the  end  that  "  the  public  might  judge." 
Then  Stock,  the  publisher,  came  along  and 
sought  to  prevent  the  publication  on  the 
strength  of  a  contract  by  which  Becque 
had  bound  himself  to  give  Stock  his  next 
play.  (Times  change,  but  not  publishers!) 
However,  U Illustration,  being  wealthy  and 
powerful,  rode  over  M.  Stock.  And  the 
amateurs  of  Becque  have  duly  had  the  pleas- 
ure of  reading  "  Les  Polichinelles."  Just 
as  "  Les  Corbeaux "  was  the  result  of 
experiences  gained  in  a  domestic  smash-up, 
and  "  La  Parisienne "  the  result  of  experi- 
ences    gained     in     a     feverish     liason,     so 

260 


HENRI  BECQUE 

"  Les  Polichinelles  "  is  the  result  of  experi-  20  Oct.  '10 
ences  gained  on  the  Bourse.  It  is  in  five 
acts.  The  first  two  are  practically  com- 
plete, and  they  are  exceedingly  fine — quite 
equal  to  the  very  best  Becque.  The  other 
acts  are  fragmentary,  but  some  of  the  frag- 
ments are  admirable.  I  can  think  of  no 
living  author  who  would  be  equal  to  the 
task  of  completing  the  play  without  making 
himself  ridiculous. 

Becque  was  unfortunate  in  death  as  in  life. 
At  his  graveside,  on  the  day  of  his  funeral, 
his  admirers  said  with  one  accord:  "Every 
year  on  this  day  we  will  gather  here.  His 
name  shall  be  a  flag  for  us."  But  for  sev- 
eral years  they  forgot  all  about  Becque.  And 
when  at  length  they  did  come  back,  with 
a  wreath,  they  could  not  find  the  grave.  I,t 
was  necessary  to  question  keepers  and  to 
consult  the  oflScial  register  of  the  cemetery. 
In  the  end  the  grave  was  re-discovered  and 
everyone  recognized  it,  and  speeches  were 
made,  and  the  wreath  piously  deposited. 
The  next  year  the  admirers  came  again, 
with  another  wreath  and  more  speeches. 
But  some  one  had  been  before  them.  A 
wreath  already  lay  on  the  grave;  it  bore 
this    inscription :      "  To    my    dear    husband 

261 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

20  Oct.  'lo  defunct."  Now  Becque,  though  worried  by 
liaisons,  had  lived  and  died  a  bachelor.  The 
admirers  had  discoursed,  the  year  before,  at 
the  grave  of  a  humble  clerk.  After  this 
Paris  put  up  a  statue  to  Becque.  But  it  is 
only  a  bust.  You  can  see  it  in  the  Avenue 
de  Villiers. 


262 


HENRY  JAMES 

At  the  beginning  of  this  particularly  ^y  Oct.  'lo 
active  book  season,  reviewing  the  publishers' 
announcements,  I  wrote:  "There  are  one 
or  two  promising  items,  including  a  novel 
by  Henry  James.  And  yet,  honestly,  am  I 
likely  at  this  time  of  day  to  be  excited  by  a 
novel  by  Henry  James?  Shall  I  even  read 
it?  I  know  that  I  shall  not.  Still,  I  shall 
put  it  on  my  shelves,  and  tell  my  juniors 
what  a  miracle  it  is."  Well,  I  have  been 
surprised  by  the  amount  of  resentment  and 
anger  which  this  honesty  of  mine  has  called 
forth.  One  of  the  politest  of  my  correspond- 
ents, dating  his  letter  from  a  city  on  the 
Rhine,  says :  "  For  myself,  it's  really  a  rot- 
ten shame ;  every  week  since  '  Books  and 
Persons '  started  have  I  hoped  you  would 
make  some  elucidating  remarks  on  this  won- 
derful writer's  work,  and  now  you  don't 
even  state  why  you  propose  not  reading 
him!"  And  so  on,  with  the  result  that 
when  "The  Finer  Grain"  (Methuen,  6s.) 
came  along,  I  put  my  pride  in  my  pocket, 
and  read  it.  (By  the  way,  it  is  not  a  novel 
but  a  collection  of  short  stories,  and  I  am 
pleased  to  see  that  it  is  candidly  advertised 
as  such.)     I  have  never  been  an  enthusiast 

263 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

27  Oct.  '10  for  Henry  James,  and  probably  I  have  not 
read  more  than  25  per  cent,  of  his  entire 
output.  The  latest  novel  of  his  which  I 
read  was  "  The  Ambassadors,"  and  upon 
that  I  took  oath  I  would  never  try  another. 
I  remember  that  I  enjoyed  "  The  Other 
House";  and  that  "In  the  Cage,"  a  short 
novel  about  a  post-office  girl,  delighted  me. 
A  few  short  stories  have  much  pleased  me. 
Beyond  this,  my  memories  of  his  work  are 
vague.  My  estimate  of  Henry  James  might 
have  been  summed  up  thus:  On  the  credit 
side: — He  is  a  truly  marvellous  craftsman. 
By  which  I  mean  that  he  constructs  with 
exquisite,  never-failing  skill,  and  that  he 
writes  like  an  angel.  Even  at  his  most 
mannered  and  his  most  exasperating,  he 
conveys  his  meaning  with  more  precision 
and  clarity  than  perhaps  any  other  living" 
writer.  He  is  never,  never  clumsy,  nor 
dubious,  even  in  the  minutest  details.  Also 
he  is  a  fine  critic,  of  impeccable  taste.  Also 
he  savours  life  with  eagerness,  sniffing  the 
breeze  of  it  like  a  hound  .  .  .  But  on  the 
debit  side: — He  is  tremendously  lacking  in 
emotional  power.  Also  his  sense  of  beauty 
is  over-sophisticated  and  wants  originality. 
Also  his  attitude  towards  the  spectacle  of 
life   is   at  bottom   conventional,   timid,   and 

264 


HENRY  JAMES 

undecided.  Also  he  seldom  chooses  themes  27  Oct.  '10 
of  first-class  importance,  and  when  he  does 
choose  such  a  theme  he  never  fairly  bites  it 
and  makes  it  bleed.  Also  his  curiosity  is 
limited.  He  seems  to  me  to  have  been  spe- 
cially created  to  be  admired  by  super- 
dilettanti.  (I  do  not  say  that  to  admire 
him  is  a  proof  of  dilettantism.)  What  it 
all  comes  to  is  merely  that  his  subject- 
matter  does  not  as  a  rule  interest  me.  I 
simply  state  my  personal  view,  and  I  ex- 
pressly assert  my  admiration  for  the  crafts- 
man in  him  and  for  the  magnificent  and 
consistent  rectitude  of  his  long  artistic 
career.  Further  I  will  not  go,  though  I 
know  that  bombs  will  now  be  laid  at  my 
front-door  by  the  furious  faithful.  As  for 
"  The  Finer  Grain,"  it  leaves  me  as  I  was 
— cold.  It  is  an  uneven  collection,  and  the 
stories  probably  belong  to  different  periods. 
The  first,  "  The  Velvet  Glove,"  strikes  me  as 
conventional  and  without  conviction.  I 
should  not  call  it  subtle,  but  rather  obvious. 
I  should  call  it  finicking.  In  the  sentence- 
structure  mannerism  is  pushed  to  excess. 
All  the  other  stories  are  better.  "  Crafty 
Cornelia,"  for  instance,  is  an  exceedingly 
brilliant  exercise  in  the  art  of  making  stone- 
soup.    But  then,  I  know  I  am  in  a  minority 

265 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2y  Oct.  'jo  among  persons  of  taste.  Some  of  the  very 
best  literary  criticism  of  recent  years  has 
been  aroused  by  admiration  for  Henry 
James.  There  is  a  man  on  the  Times  Liter- 
ary Supplement,  who,  whenever  he  writes 
about  Henry  James,  makes  me  feel  that  I 
have  mistaken  my  vocation  and  ought  to 
have  entered  the  Indian  Civil  Service,  or 
been  a  cattle-drover.  However,  I  can't  help 
it.  And  I  give  notice  that  I  will  not  reply 
to  scurrilous  letters. 


266  ^ 


ENGLISH  LITERARY 
CRITICISM 

I  LEARN  that  Mr.  Elkin  Mathews  is  3  Nov.  '10 
about  to  publish  a  collected  uniform  edition 
of  the  works  (poems  and  criticism)  and  cor- 
respondence of  the  late  Lionel  Johnson.  I 
presume  that  this  edition  will  comprise  his 
study  of  Thomas  Hardy.  The  enterprise 
proves  that  Lionel  Johnson  has  admirers 
capable  of  an  excellent  piety;  and  it  also 
argues  a  certain  continuance  of  the  demand 
for  his  books.  I  was  never  deeply  impressed 
by  Lionel  Johnson's  criticisms,  and  still  less 
by  his  verse,  but  in  the  days  of  his  activity 
I  was  young  and  difficult  and  hasty.  Per- 
haps my  net  was  too  coarse  for  his  fineness. 
But,  anyhow,  I  would  give  much  to  have  a 
large  homogeneous  body  of  English  literary 
criticism  to  read  at.  And  I  should  be 
obliged  to  anyone  who  would  point  out  to 
me  where  such  a  body  of  first-rate  criticism 
is  to  be  found.  I  have  never  been  able  to 
find  it  for  myself.  When  I  think  of  Pierre 
Bayle,  Ste.  Beuve  and  Taine,  and  of  the 
keen  pleasure  I  derive  from  the  immense 
pasture  offered  by  their  voluminous  and  con- 
sistently admirable  works,  I  ask  in  vain 
where    are    the    great    English    critics    of 

267 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

3  Nov.  'lo  English  literature.  Beside  these  French 
critics,  the  best  of  our  own  seem  either 
fragmentary  or  provincial — yes,  curiously 
provincial.  Except  Hazlitt  we  have,  I 
believe,  no  even  approximately  first-class 
writer  who  devoted  his  main  activity  to 
criticism.  And  Hazlitt,  though  he  is  very 
readable,  has  neither  the  urbaneness,  nor 
the  science,  nor  the  learning,  nor  the  wide 
grasp  of  life  and  of  history  that  character- 
izes the  three  above-named.  Briefly,  he  didn't 
know  enough. 

Lamb  would  have  been  a  first-class  critic 
if  he  hadn't  given  the  chief  part  of  his  life 
to  clerkship.  Lamb  at  any  rate  is  not 
provincial.  His  perceptions  are  never  at 
fault.  Every  sentence  of  Lamb  proves  his 
taste  and  his  powerful  intelligence.  Cole- 
ridge— well,  Coleridge  has  his  comprehen- 
sible moments,  but  they  are  few;  Matthew 
Arnold,  with  study  and  discipline,  might 
perhaps  have  been  a  great  critic,  only  his 
passion  for  literature  was  not  strong  enough 
to  make  him  give  up  school-inspecting — 
and  there  you  are!  Moreover,  Matthew 
Arnold  could  never  have  written  of  women 
as  Ste.  Beuve  did.  There  were  a  lot  of 
vastly     interesting     things     that     Matthew 

268 


ENGLISH   LITERARY  CRITICISM 

Arnold  did  not  understand  and  did  not  want  3  Nov.  '10 
to  understand.  He,  too,  was  provincial  (I 
regret  to  say) — you  can  feel  it  throughout 
his  letters,  though  his  letters  make  very 
good  quiet  reading.  Churton  Collins  was  a 
scholar  of  an  extreme  type;  unfortunately 
he  possessed  no  real  feeling  for  literature, 
and  thus  his  judgment,  when  it  had  to  stand 
alone,  cut  a  figure  prodigiously  absurd. 
And  among  living  practitioners?  Well,  I 
have  no  hesitation  in  de-classing  the  whole 
professorial  squad — Bradley,  Herford,  Dow- 
den,  Walter  Raleigh,  Elton,  Saintsbury. 
The  first  business  of  any  writer,  and  especi- 
ally of  any  critical  writer,  is  not  to  be  man- 
darinic  and  tedious,  and  these  lecturers  have 
not  yet  learnt  that  first  business.  The  best 
of  them  is  George  Saintsbury,  but  his  style 
is  such  that  even  in  Carmelite  Street  the  sub- 
editors would  try  to  correct  it.  Imagine  the 
reception  of  such  a  style  in  Paris!  Still, 
Professor  Saintsbury  does  occasionally  stray 
out  of  the  university  quadrangles,  and  puts 
on  the  semblance  of  a  male  human  being 
as  distinguished  from  an  asexual  peda- 
gogue. Professor  Walter  Raleigh  is  im- 
proving. Professor  Elton  has  never  fallen 
to  the  depths  of  sterile  and  pretentious 
banality   which    are    the    natural    and    cus- 

269 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

3  Nov.  'lo  tomary  level  of  the  remaining  three.  .  .  . 
You  think  I  am  letting  my  pen  run  away 
with  me?  Not  at  all.  That  is  nothing  to 
what  I  could  say  if  I  tried.  Mr.  J.  W. 
Mackail  might  have  been  one  of  our  major 
critics,  but  there  again — he,  too,  prefers  the 
security  of  a  Government  office,  like  Mr. 
Austin  Dobson,  who,  by  the  way,  is  very 
good  in  a  very  limited  sphere.  Perhaps 
Austin  Dobson  is  as  good  as  we  have. 
Compare  his  low  flight  with  the  terrific 
sweeping  range  of  a  Ste.  Beuve  or  a  Taine. 
I  wish  that  some  greatly  gifted  youth  now 
aged  about  seventeen  would  make  up  his 
mind  to  be  a  literary  critic  and  nothing 
else. 


270 


MRS.  ELINOR  GLYN 

After  all,  the  world  does  move.  I  never  jo  Nov.  'lo 
thought  to  be  able  to  congratulate  the  Cir- 
culating Libraries  on  their  attitude  towards 
a  work  of  art;  and  here  in  common  fair- 
ness I,  who  have  so  often  animadverted  upon 
their  cowardice,  am  obliged  to  laud  their 
courage.  The  instant  cause  of  this  is  Mrs. 
Elinor  Glyn's  new  novel,  "His  Hour" 
(Duckworths,  6s.)  Everybody  who  cares 
for  literature  knows,  or  should  know,  Mrs. 
Glyn's  fine  carelessness  of  popular  opinion 
(either  here  or  in  the  States),  and  the  single- 
ness of  her  regard  for  the  art  which  she 
practises  and  which  she  honours.  Troubling 
herself  about  naught  but  splendour  of 
subject  and  elevation  of  style,  she  goes  on 
her  career  indifferent  alike  to  the  praise  and 
to  the  blame  of  the  mob.  (I  use  the  word 
"  mob  "  in  Fielding's  sense — as  meaning  per- 
sons, in  no  matter  what  rank  of  life,  capable 
of  "low"  feelings.)  Perhaps  Mrs.  Glyn's 
latest  book  is  the  supreme  example  of  her 
genius  and  of  her  conscientiousness.  In 
essence  it  is  a  short  story,  handled  with  a 
fullness  and  a  completeness  which  justify 
her  in  calling  it  a  novel.  There  are  two 
principal   characters,   a   young  half -Cossack 

271 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

10  Nov.  'lo  Russian  prince  and  an  English  widow  of 
good  family.  The  pet  name  of  the  former 
is  "  Gritzko."  The  latter  is  generally  called 
Tamara.  Gritzko  is  one  of  those  heroic 
heroes  who  can  spend  their  nights  in  the 
company  of  prostitutes,  and  their  days  in 
the  solution  of  deep  military  problems.  He 
is  very  wealthy;  he  has  every  attribute  of  a 
hero,  including  audacity.  During  their  very 
first  dance  together  Gritzko  kissed  Tamara. 
"They  were  up  in  a  corner;  everyone's  back 
was  turned  to  them  happily,  for  in  one  sec- 
ond he  had  bent  and  kissed  her  neck.  It 
was  done  with  such  incredible  swift- 
ness. .  .  ."  etc.  "But  the  kiss  burnt  into 
Tamara's  flesh"  .  .  .  "'How  dare  you? 
How  dare  you?'  she  hissed." 

Later  ".  .  .  *  I  hate  you! '  almost  hissed 
poor  Tamara."  (Note  the  realistic  exacti- 
tude of  that  "  almost.")  "  Then  his  eyes 
blazed.  .  .  .  He  moved  nearer  to  her,  and 
spoke  in  a  low  concentrated  voice:  '  It  is  a 
challenge;  good.  Now  listen  to  what  I  say: 
In  a  little  short  time  you  shall  love  me. 
That  haughty  little  head  shall  be  here  on  my 
breast  without  a  struggle,  and  I  shall  kiss 
your  lips  until  you  cannot  breathe.'  For 
the  second   time   in   her  life  Tamara  went 

272 


MRS.  ELINOR  GLYN 

dead  white.    ..."    Then  follow  scenes  of  lo  Nov.  *io 

revelry,  in  which  Mrs.  Glyn,  with  a  courage 

as  astonishing  as  her  power,  exposes  all  that 

is  fatuous  and  vicious  in  the  loftiest  regions 

of     Russian     fashionable     society.       Later, 

Gritzko   did  kiss  Tamara  on   the   lips,   but 

she  objected.     Still  later  he  got  the  English 

widow  in  a  lonely  hut  in  a  snowstorm,  and 

this    was    "  his    hour."      But    she    had    a 

revolver.     "  *  Touch  me   and  I  will   shoot,' 

she  gasped.    .    .    .    He  made  a  step  forward, 

but  she  lifted  the  pistol  again  to  her  head 

.    .    .    and  thus  they  glared  at  one  another, 

the  hunter  and  the  hunted.    .    .    .    He  flung 

himself  on  the  couch  and  lit  a  cigarette,  and 

all  that  was  savage  and  cruel  in  him  flamed 

from  his  eyes.    '  My  God!    .    .    .    and  still  I 

loved  you — madly  loved  you   .    .    .    and  last 

night  when  you  defied  me,  then  I  determined 

you  should  belong  to  me  by  force.    No  power 

in  heaven  or  earth  can  save  you!  Ah!  If  you 

had  been  different,  how  happy  we  might  have 

been!    But  it  is  too  late;  the  devil  has  won, 

and  soon  I  will  do  what  I  please.'   .    .    .    For 

a  long  time  there  was  silence.    .    .    .    Then 

the  daylight  faded  quite,  and  the  Prince  got 

up  and  lit  a  small  oil  lamp.     There  was  a 

deadly  silence.    .     .     .    Ah!    She  must  fight 

against  this  horrible  lethargy.    .     .     .    Her 

273 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

10  Nov.  'lo  arm  had  grown  numb.  .  .  .  Strange  lights 
seemed  to  flash  before  her  eyes — yes — surely 
— that  was  Gritzko  coming  towards  her!  She 
gave  a  gasping  cry  and  tried  to  pull  the 
trigger,  but  it  was  stiflF.  .  .  .  The  pistol 
dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp.  .  .  .  She 
gave  one  moan.  .  .  .  With  a  bound  Gritzko 
leaped  up.    ..." 

"  The  light  was  gray  when  Tamara 
awoke.  Where  was  she?  What  had  hap- 
pened? Something  ghastly,  but  where? 
Then  she  perceived  her  torn  blouse,  and 
with  a  terrible  pang  remembrance  came  back 
to  her.  She  started  up,  and  as  she  did  so 
realized  that  she  was  in  her  stockinged 
feet.  The  awful  certainty.  .  .  .  Gritzko 
had  won — she  was  utterly  disgraced.  .  .  . 
She  hurriedly  drew  off  the  blouse,  then  she 
saw  her  torn  underthings.  .  .  .  She  knew 
that  however  she  might  make  even  the  blouse 
look  to  the  casual  eyes  of  her  godmother,  she 
could  never  deceive  her  maid."  ..."  She 
was  an  outcast.  She  was  no  better  than  Mary 
Gibson,  whom  Aunt  Clara  had  with  harsh- 
ness turned  out  of  the  house.  She — a  lady! 
— a  grand  English  lady!  .  .  .  She  crouched 
down  in  a  corner  like  a  cowed  dog.  .  .  ." 
Then  he  wrote  to  her  formally  demanding 

274 


MRS.  ELINOR  GLYN 

her  hand.  And  she  replied :  "  To  Prince  jo  Nov.  'lo 
Milaslavski.  Monsieur, — I  have  no  choice; 
I  consent. — ^Yours  truly,  Tamara  Loraine." 
Thus  they  were  married.  Her  mood  changed. 
"Oh!  What  did  anything  else  matter  in 
the  world  since  after  all  he  loved  herl  This 
beautiful  fierce  lover  I  Visions  of  enchant- 
ment presented  themselves.  .  .  .  She  buried 
her  face  in  his  scarlet  coat.  .  .  ."  I  must 
add  that  Gritzko  had  not  really  violated 
Tamara.  He  had  only  ripped  open  her 
corsage  to  facilitate  respiration,  and  kissed 
her  "  little  feet."  She  honestly  thought 
herself  the  victim  of  a  satyr;  but,  though 
she  was  a  widow,  with  several  years  of 
marriage  behind  her,  she  had  been  quite 
mistaken  on  this  point.  You  see,  she  was 
English. 

"  His  Hour "  is  a  sexual  novel.  It  is 
magnificently  sexual.  My  quotations,  of 
course,  do  less  than  justice  to  it,  but  I  think 
I  have  made  clear  the  simple  and  highly 
courageous  plot.  Gritzko  desired  Tamara 
with  the  extreme  of  amorous  passion,  and  in 
order  to  win  her  entirely  he  allowed  her  to 
believe  that  he  had  raped  her.  She,  being 
an  English  widow,  moving  in  the  most  re- 
fined circles,  naturally  regarded  the  outrage 

275 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

10  Nov.  'jo  as  an  imperious  reason  for  accepting  his 
hand.  That  is  a  summary  of  Mrs.  Glyn's 
novel,  of  which,  by  the  way,  I  must  quote 
the  dedication:  "With  grateful  homage  and 
devotion  I  dedicate  this  book  to  Her  Im- 
perial Highness  The  Grand  Duchess  Vladi- 
mir of  Russia.  In  memory  of  the  happy 
evenings  spent  in  her  gracious  presence  when 
reading  to  her  these  pages,  which  her  sym- 
pathetic aid  in  facilitating  my  opportunities 
for  studying  the  Russian  character  enabled 
me  to  write.  Her  kind  appreciation  of  the 
finished  work  is  a  source  of  the  deepest  grati- 
fication to  me." 

The  source  of  the  deepest  gratification  to 
me  is  the  fact  that  the  Censorship  Committee 
of  the  United  Circulating  Libraries  should 
have  allowed  this  noble,  daring,  and  masterly 
work  to  pass  freely  over  their  counters. 
What  a  change  from  January  of  this  year, 
when  Mary  Gaunt's  "  The  Uncounted  Cost," 
which  didn't  show  the  ghost  of  a  rape,  could 
not  even  be  advertised  in  the  organ  of  The 
Times  Book  Club!  After  this,  who  can  com- 
plain against  a  Library  Censorship?  It  is 
true  that  while  passing  "  His  Hour," 
the  same  censorship  puts  its  ban  absolute 
upon     Mr.     John     Trevena's     new     novel 

276 


MRS.  ELINOR  GLYN 

"  Bracken."  It  is  true  that  quite  a  number  of  jo  Nov.  'lo 
people  had  considered  Mr.  Trevena  to  be  a 
serious  and  dignified  artist  of  rather  consider- 
able talent.  It  is  true  that  "  Bracken  "  prob- 
ably contains  nothing  that  for  sheer  brave 
sexuality  can  be  compared  with  a  score  of 
passages  in  "His  Hour."  What  then?  The 
Censorship  Committee  must  justify  its  exist- 
ence somehow.  Mr.  Trevena  ought  to  have 
dedicated  his  wretched  provincial  novel  to 
the  Queen  of  Montenegro.  He  painfully 
lacks  "  savoir-vivre."  In  the  early  part  of 
this  year  certain  mysterious  meetings  took 
place  apropos  of  the  Censorship,  between 
a  sub-committee  of  the  Society  of  Authors 
and  a  sub-committee  of  the  Publishers'  Asso- 
ciation. But  nothing  was  done.  I  am  told 
that  the  Authors'  Society  is  now  about  to  take 
the  matter  up  again.    But  why? 


277 


W.  H.  HUDSON 
24  Nov.  '10  I  SUPPOSE  that  there  are  few  writers  less 
"  literary "  than  Mr.  W.  H.  Hudson,  and 
few  among  the  living  more  likely  to  be 
regarded,  a  hundred  years  h'^nce,  as  having 
produced  "  literature."  He  is  so  unassum- 
ing, so  mild,  so  intensely  and  unconsciously 
original  in  the  expression  of  his  naive  emo- 
tions before  the  spectacle  of  life,  that  a 
hasty  inquirer  into  his  idiosyncrasy  might  be 
excused  for  entirely  missing  the  point  of 
him.  His  new  book  (which  helps  to  redeem 
the  enormous  vulgarity  of  a  booming  season), 
"A  Shepherd's  Life:  Impressions  of  the 
South  Wiltshire  Downs"  (Methuens),  is 
soberly  of  a  piece  with  his  long  and  deliber- 
ate career.  A  large  volume,  yet  one  arrives 
at  the  end  of  it  with  surprising  quickness, 
because  the  pages  seem  to  slip  over  of  them- 
selves. Everything  connected  with  the  Wilt- 
shire downs  is  in  it,  together  with  a  good 
deal  not  immediately  therewith  connected. 
For  example,  Mr.  Hudson's  views  on  pri- 
mary education,  which  are  not  as  mature 
as  his  views  about  shepherds  and  wild  beasts 
of  the  downs.  He  seldom  omits  to  describe 
the  individualities  of  the  wild  beasts  of  his 
acquaintance.     For  him  a  mole  is  not  any 

278 


W.  H.  HUDSON 

mole,  but  a  particular  mole.  He  will  tell  24  Nov.  *io 
you  about  a  mole  that  did  not  dig  like  other 
moles  but  had  a  method  of  its  own,  and  he 
will  give  you  the  reason  why  this  singular 
mole  lived  to  a  great  age.  As  a  rule,  he 
remarks  with  a  certain  sadness,  wild  animals 
die  prematurely,  their  existence  being  excit- 
ing and  dangerous.  How  many  men  know 
England — I  mean  the  actual  earth  and  flesh 
that  make  England — as  Mr.  Hudson  knows 
it?  This  is  his  twelfth  book,  and  four  or 
five  of  the  dozen  are  already  classics.  Prob- 
ably no  literary  dining  club  or  association  of 
authors  or  journalists  male  or  female  will 
ever  give  a  banquet  in  Mr.  Hudson's  honour. 
It  would  not  occur  to  the  busy  organizers  of 

these  affairs  to  do  so.     And  yet But, 

after  all,  it  is  well  that  he  should  be  spared 
such  an  ordeal. 


279 


NEO-IMPRESSIONISM  AND 
LITERATURE 

8  Dec.  'lo  The  exhibition  of  the  so-called  "  Neo- 
Impressionists "  over  which  the  culture  of 
London  is  now  laughing,  has  an  interest 
which  is  perhaps  not  confined  to  the  art  of 
painting.  For  me,  personally,  it  has  a 
slight,  vague  repercussion  upon  literature. 
The  attitude  of  the  culture  of  London 
towards  it  is  of  course  merely  humiliating 
to  any  Englishman  who  has  made  an  effort 
to  cure  himself  of  insularity.  It  is  one  more 
proof  that  the  negligent  disdain  of  Continen- 
tal artists  for  English  artistic  opinion  is 
fairly  well  founded.  The  mild  tragedy  of 
the  thing  is  that  London  is  infinitely  too 
self-complacent  even  to  suspect  that  it  is 
London  and  not  the  exhibition  which  is 
making  itself  ridiculous.  The  laughter  of 
London  in  this  connexion  is  just  as  silly, 
just  as  provincial,  just  as  obtuse,  as  would  be 
the  laughter  of  a  small  provincial  town  were 
Strauss's  "  Salome,"  or  Debussy's  "  Pelleas 
et  Melisande "  offered  for  its  judgment. 
One  can  imagine  the  shocked,  contemptuous 
resentment  of  a  London  musical  amateur 
(one  of  those  that  arrived  at  Covent  Garden 
box-office  at  6  a.m.  the  other  day  to  secure 

280 


NEO-IMPRESSIONISM 

a  seat  for  "  Salome  ")  at  the  guffaw  of  a  5  Dec  'lo 
provincial  town  confronted  by  the  spectacle 
and  the  noise  of  the  famous  "  Salome " 
osculation.  But  the  amusement  of  that 
same  amateur  confronted  by  an  uncom- 
promizing  "  Neo-Impressionist "  picture 
amounts  to  exactly  the  same  guffaw.  The 
guffaw  is  legal.  You  may  guffaw  before 
Rembrandt  (people  do  I),  but  in  so  doing 
you  only  add  to  the  sum  of  human  stu- 
pidity. London  may  be  unaware  that  the 
value  of  the  best  work  of  this  new  school  is 
permanently  and  definitely  settled — outside 
London.  So  much  the  worse  for  London. 
For  the  movement  has  not  only  got  past 
the  guffaw  stage;  it  has  got  past  the  arguing 
stage.  Its  authenticity  is  admitted  by  all 
those  who  have  kept  themselves  fully  awake. 
And  in  twenty  years  London  will  be  signing 
an  apology  for  its  guffaw.  It  will  be  writ- 
ing itself  down  an  ass.  The  writing  will 
consist  of  large  cheques  payable  for  Neo- 
Impressionist  pictures  to  Messrs.  Christie 
Manson  and  Woods.  London  is  already 
familiar  with  this  experience,  and  doesn't 
mind. 

Who  am  I  that  I  should  take  exception  to 
the  guffaw?    Ten  years  ago  I  too  guffawed, 

281 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

8  Dec.  'lo  though  I  hope  with  not  quite  the  Kensing- 
tonian  twang.  The  first  Cezannes  I  ever 
saw  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  funny.  They 
did  not  disturb  my  dreams,  because  I  was 
not  in  the  business.  But  my  notion  about 
Cezanne  was  that  he  was  a  fond  old  man 
who  distracted  himself  by  daubing.  I  could 
not  say  how  my  conversion  to  Cezanne 
began.  When  one  is  not  a  practising  expert 
in  an  art,  a  single  word,  a  single  intonation, 
uttered  by  an  expert  whom  one  esteems, 
may  commence  a  process  of  change  which 
afterwards  seems  to  go  on  by  itself.  But  I 
remember  being  very  much  impressed  by 
a  still-life — some  fruit  in  a  bowl — and  on 
approaching  it  I  saw  Cezanne's  clumsy 
signature  in  the  corner.  From  that  moment 
the  revelation  was  swift.  And  before  I  had 
seen  any  Gauguins  at  all,  I  was  prepared 
to  consider  Gauguin  with  sympathy.  The 
others  followed  naturally.  I  now  surround 
myself  with  large  photographs  of  these  pic- 
tures of  which  a  dozen  years  ago  I  was 
certainly  quite  incapable  of  perceiving  the 
beauty.  The  best  still-life  studies  of 
Cezanne  seem  to  me  to  have  the  grandiose 
quality  of  epics.  And  that  picture  by 
Gauguin,  showing  the  back  of  a  Tahitian 
young  man  with  a  Tahitian  girl  on  either 

282 


NEO-IMPRESSIONISM 

side  of  him,  is  an  affair  which  I  regard  with  8  Dec.  'lo 
acute  pleasure  every  morning.  There  are 
compositions  by  Vuillard  which  equally  en- 
chant me.  Naturally  I  cannot  accept  the 
whole  school — no  more  than  the  whole  of 
any  school.  I  have  derived  very  little 
pleasure  from  Matisse,  and  the  later  devel- 
opments of  Felix  Vallotton  leave  me  in  the 
main  unmoved.  But  one  of  the  very 
latest  phenomena  of  the  school — the  water- 
colours  of  Pierre  Laprade — I  have  found 
ravishing. 

It  is  in  talking  to  several  of  these  painters, 
in  watching  their  familiar  deportment,  and 
particularly  in  listening  to  their  conversa- 
tions with  others  on  subjects  other  than 
painting,  that  I  have  come  to  connect  their 
ideas  with  literature.  They  are  not  good 
theorizers  about  art;  and  I  am  not  myself  a 
good  theorizer  about  art;  a  creative  artist 
rarely  is.  But  they  do  ultimately  put  their 
ideas  into  words.  You  may  receive  one 
word  one  day  and  the  next  next  week,  but 
in  the  end  an  idea  gets  itself  somehow 
stated.  Whenever  I  have  listened  to  Lap- 
rade criticizing  pictures,  especially  students' 
work,  I  have  thought  about  literature;  I 
have  been  forced  to  wonder  whether  I  should 

283 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

8  Dec.  'jo  not  have  to  reconsider  my  ideals.  The  fact 
is  that  some  of  these  men  are  persuasive  in 
themselves.  They  disengage,  in  their  talk, 
in  their  profound  seriousness,  in  their  sense 
of  humour,  in  the  sound  organization  of 
their  industry,  and  in  their  calm  assurance — 
they  disengage  a  convincingness  that  is 
powerful  beyond  debate.  An  artist  who  is 
truly  original  cannot  comment  on  boot- 
laces without  illustrating  his  philosophy  and 
consolidating  his  position.  Noting  in  my- 
self that  a  regular  contemplation  of  these 
pictures  inspires  a  weariness  of  all  other 
pictures  that  are  not  absolutely  first-rate, 
giving  them  a  disconcerting  affinity  to  the 
tops  of  chocolate-boxes  or  to  "  art "  photo- 
graphs, I  have  permitted  myself  to  suspect 
that  supposing  some  writer  were  to  come 
along  and  do  in  words  what  these  men  have 
done  in  paint,  I  might  conceivably  be  dis- 
gusted with  nearly  the  whole  of  modern 
fiction,  and  I  might  have  to  begin  again. 
This  awkward  experience  will  in  all  proba- 
bility not  happen  to  me,  but  it  might  happen 
to  a  writer  younger  than  me.  At  any  rate 
it  is  a  fine  thought.  The  average  critic 
always  calls  me,  both  in  praise  and 
dispraise,  "photographic";  and  I  always 
rebut  the   epithet  with   disdain,   because   in 

284 


NEO-IMPRESSIONISM 

the  sense  meant  by  the  average  critic  I  am  8  Dec.  'lo 
not  photographic.  But  supposing  that  in  a 
deeper  sense  I  were?  Supposing  a  young 
writer  turned  up  and  forced  me,  and  some 
of  my  contemporaries — us  who  fancy  our- 
selves a  bit — to  admit  that  we  had  been  con- 
cerning ourselves  unduly  with  inessentials, 
that  we  had  been  worrying  ourselves  to 
achieve  infantile  realisms?  Well,  that  day 
would  be  a  great  and  a  disturbing  day — 
for  us. 


285 


I9II 


BOOKS  OF  THE  YEAR 

The  practice  of  reviewing  the  literature  of  -f^  J^^-  '^^ 
the  year  at  the  end  thereof  is  now  decaying. 
Newspapers  still  give  a  masterly  survey  of 
the  motor  cars  of  the  year.  I  remember 
the  time  when  it  was  part  of  my  duty  as  a  • 
serious  journalist  to  finish  at  Christmas  a 
two-thousand  word  article,  full  of  dis- 
crimination as  fine  as  Irish  lace,  about  the 
fiction  of  the  year;  and  other  terrifying  spe- 
cialists were  engaged  to  deal  amply  with  the 
remaining  branches  of  literature.  To-day, 
one  man  in  one  column  and  one  day  will 
polish  off  what  five  of  us  scarcely  exhausted 
in  seven  columns  and  seven  days.  I  am 
referring  to  the  distant  past  of  a  dozen  years 
ago,  before  William  de  Morgan  was  born, 
and  before  America  and  Elinor  Glyn  had 
discovered  each  other.  Last  week  many 
newspapers  dismissed  the  entire  fiction  of 
1910  in  a  single  paragraph.  The  conse- 
quence is  that  there  has  been  no  "  book  of 
the  year."  A  critic  without  space  to  spread 
himself  hesitates  to  pronounce  downright 
for  a  particular  book.  A  critic  engaged  in 
the  dangerous  art  of  creating  the  "  book  of 
the  year  "  wants  room  to  hedge,  and  in  the 
newest  journalism  there  is  no  room  to  hedge. 

289 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

12  Jan.  'ii  So  the  critic  refrains  from  the  act  of  creation. 
He  imitates  the  discretion  of  the  sporting 
tipster,  who  names  several  horses  as  being 
likely  to  win  one  race.  "  Among  the  books 
of  the  year  are  Blank,  Blank  and  Blank," 
he  says.  (But  what  he  means  is,  "The 
book  of  the  year  is  to  be  found  among 
Blank,  Blank  and  Blank.")  Naturally  he 
selects  among  the  books  whose  titles  come 
into  his  head  with  the  least  difficulty;  that 
is  to  say,  the  books  which  he  has  most 
recently  reviewed;  that  is  to  say,  the  books 
published  during  the  autumn  season.  No 
doubt  during  the  spring  season  he  has  dis- 
tinguished several  books  as  being  "  great," 
"  masterly,"  "  unforgettable,"  "  genius  ";  but 
ere  the  fall  of  the  leaf  these  works  have 
completely  escaped  from  his  memory.  No 
author,  and  particularly  no  novelist  who 
wishes  to  go  down  to  posterity,  should 
publish  during  the  spring  season;  it  is 
fatal. 

The  celebrated  "  Dop  Doctor"  (published 
by  Heinemann)  and  Mr.  Temple  Thurston's 
"  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense "  (published 
by  Chapman  and  Hall)  have  both  sold  very 
well  indeed  throughout  the  entire  year. 
In  fact,  they  were  selling  better  in  December 

290 


BOOKS  OF  THE  YEAR 

than  many  successful  novels  published  in  the  12  Jan.  '11 
autumn.  Yet  neither  of  them,  assuming 
that  there  had  been  a  book  of  the  year, 
would  have  had  much  chance  of  being  that 
book.  The  reason  is  that  they  have  not 
been  sufficiently  "  talked  about."  I  mean 
"  talked  about "  by  "  the  right  people." 
And  by  "  right  people  "  I  mean  the  people 
who  make  a  practice  of  dining  out  at  least 
three  times  a  week  in  the  West  End  of 
London  to  the  accompaniment  of  cultured 
conversation.  I  mean  the  people  who  are 
"  in  the  know,"  politically,  socially,  and  intel- 
lectually— who  know  what  Mr.  F.  E.  Smith 
says  to  Mr.  Winston  Churchill  in  private, 
why  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  made  such  an 
enormous  pother  at  the  last  council  meeting 
of  the  Authors'  Society,  what  is  really  the 
matter  with  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw's  later  work, 
whether  Mr.  Balfour  does  indeed  help 
Mr.  Garvin  to  write  the  Daily  Telegraph 
leaders,  and  whether  the  Savoy  Restau- 
rant is  as  good  under  the  new  manage- 
ment as  under  the  old.  I  reckon  there 
are  about  12,055  of  these  people.  They 
constitute  the  elite.  Without  their  aid, 
without  their  refined  and  judicial  twitter- 
ing, no  book  can  hope  to  be  a  book  of  the 
year. 

291 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

12  Jan.  'ii  Now  I  am  in  a  position  to  state  that  no 
novel  for  very  many  years  has  been  so  dis- 
cussed by  the  elite  as  Mr.  Forster's  "  How- 
ard's End"  (published  by  Edward  Arnold). 
The  ordinary  library  reader  knows  that  it 
has  been  a  very  considerable  popular  suc- 
cess; persons  of  genuine  taste  know  that  it 
is  a  very  considerable  literary  achievement; 
but  its  triumph  is  that  it  has  been  mightily 
argued  about  during  the  repasts  of  the  elite. 
I  need  scarcely  say  that  it  is  not  Mr,  For- 
ster's best  book;  no  author's  best  book  is 
ever  the  best  received — this  is  a  rule  practi- 
cally without  exception.  A  more  curious 
point  about  it  is  that  it  contains  a  lot  of 
very  straight  criticism  of  the  elite.  And  yet 
this  point  is  not  very  curious  either.  For  the 
elite  have  no  objection  whatever  to  being 
criticized.  They  rather  like  it,  as  the  alli- 
gator likes  being  tickled  with  peas  out  of 
a  pea-shooter.  Their  hides  are  superbly  im- 
penetrable. And  I  know  not  which  to  admire 
the  more,  the  American's  sensitiveness  to 
pea-shooting,  or  the  truly  correct  English- 
man's indestructible  indifference  to  it.  Mr. 
Forster  is  a  young  man.  I  believe  he  is 
still  under  thirty,  if  not  under  twenty-nine. 
If  he  continues  to  write  one  book  a  year 
regularly,  to  be  discreet  and  mysterious,  to 

292 


BOOKS  OF  THE  YEAR 

refrain  absolutely  from  certain  themes,  and  iz  Jan-  *ii 
to  avoid  a  too  marked  tendency  to  humour, 
he  will  be  the  most  fashionable  novelist  in 
England  in  ten  years  time.  His  worldly 
prospects  are  very  brilliant  indeed.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  writes  solely  to  please 
himself,  forgetting  utterly  the  existence  of 
the  elite,  he  may  produce  some  first-class 
literature.  The  responsibilities  lying  upon 
him  at  this  crisis  of  his  career  are  terrific. 
And  he  so  young  tool 


293 


"THE  NEW  MACHIAVELLI" 
2  Feb.  'ii  A  PRETTY  general  realization  of  the  ex- 
tremely high  quality  of  "  The  New  Machia- 
velli "  has  reduced  almost  to  silence  the 
ignoble  tittle-tattle  that  accompanied  its 
serial  publication  in  the  English  Review. 
It  is  years  since  a  novel  gave  rise  to  so 
much  offensive  and  ridiculous  chatter  before 
being  issued  as  a  book.  When  the  chatter 
began,  dozens  of  people  who  would  no  more 
dream  of  paying  four-and-sixpence  for  a  new 
novel  that  happened  to  be  literature  than  they 
would  dream  of  paying  four-and-sixpence  for 
a  cigar,  sent  down  to  the  offices  of  the 
English  Review  for  complete  sets  of  back 
numbers  at  half-a-crown  a  number,  so  that 
they  could  rummage  without  a  moment's 
delay  among  the  earlier  chapters  in  search 
of  tit-bits  according  to  their  singular  appe- 
tite. Such  was  the  London  which  calls 
itself  literary  and  political  1  A  spectacle  to 
encourage  cynicism!  Rumour  had  a  won- 
derful time.  It  was  stated  that  not  only  the 
libraries  but  the  booksellers  also  would 
decline  to  handle  "  The  New  Machiavelli." 
The  reasons  for  this  prophesied  ostracism 
were  perhaps  vague,  but  they  were  under- 
stood to  be  broad-based  upon  the  unprec- 

294 


"  THE  NEW  MACHIAVELLI  " 

edented  audacity  of  the  novel.     And  really  2  Feb.  '11 

in  this  exciting  year,  with  Sir  Percy  Bunting 

in  charge  of  the  national  sense  of  decency, 

and  Mr.  W.   T.   Stead   still  gloating   after 

twenty-five  years  over  his  success  in  keeping 

Sir  Charles  Dilke  out  of  office — you  never 

can  tell  what  may  happen! 

However,  it  is  all  over  now.  "  The  New 
Machiavelli "  has  been  received  with  the 
respect  and  with  the  enthusiasm  which  its 
tremendous  qualities  deserve.  It  is  a  great 
success.  And  the  reviews  have  on  the  whole 
been  generous.  It  was  perhaps  not  to  be 
expected  that  certain  Radical  dailies  should 
swallow  the  entire  violent  dose  of  the  book 
without  kicking  up  a  fuss;  but,  indeed,  Mr. 
Scott  James,  in  the  Daily  News,  ought  to 
know  better  than  to  go  running  about  after 
autobiography  in  fiction.  The  human  nose 
was  not  designed  by  an  all-merciful  provi- 
dence for  this  purpose.  Mr.  Scott  James 
has  undoubted  gifts  as  a  critic,  and  his 
temperament  is  sympathetic;  and  the  men 
most  capable  of  appreciating  him,  and  whose 
appreciation  he  would  probably  like  to 
retain,  would  esteem  him  even  more  highly 
if  he  could  get  into  his  head  the  simple  fact 
that  a  novel  is  a  novel.     I   have   suffered 

295 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2  Feh.  'ii  myself  from  this  very  provincial  mania  for 
chemically  testing  novels  for  traces  of  auto- 
biography. There  are  some  critics  of  fiction 
who  talk  about  autobiography  in  fiction  in 
the  tone  of  a  doctor  who  has  found  arsenic 
in  the  stomach  at  a  post-mortem  inquiry. 
The  truth  is  that  whenever  a  scene  in  a  novel 
is  really  convincing,  a  certain  type  of  critical 
and  uncreative  mind  will  infallibly  mutter 
in  accents  of  pain,  "  Autobiography!  "  When 
I  was  discussing  this  topic  the  other  day 
a  novelist  not  inferior  to  Mr.  Wells  sud- 
denly exclaimed:  "I  say!  Supposing  we 
^/tV  write  autobiography!  "  .  .  .  Yes,  if  we 
did,  what  a  celestial  rumpus  there  would 
be! 

The  carping  at  "  The  New  Machiavelli " 
is  naught.  For  myself  I  anticipated  for  it  a 
vast  deal  more  carping  than  it  has  in  fact 
occasioned.  And  I  am  very  content  to  ob- 
serve a  marked  increase  of  generosity  in 
the  reception  of  Mr.  Wells'  work.  To  me 
the  welcome  accorded  to  his  best  books  has 
always  seemed  to  lack  spontaneity,  to  be 
characterized  by  a  mean  reluctance.  And 
yet  if  there  is  a  novelist  writing  to-day  who 
by  generosity  has  deserved  generosity, 
that  novelist  is  H.  G.  Wells.     Astounding 

296 


"  THE  NEW  MACHIAVELLI  " 

width  of  observation ;  a  marvellously  true  2  Feb.  *ii 
perspective;  an  extraordinary  grasp  of 
the  real  significance  of  innumerable  phe- 
nomena utterly  diverse;  profound  emotional 
power;  dazzling  verbal  skill:  these  are 
qualities  which  Mr.  Wells  indubitably  has. 
But  the  qualities  which  consecrate  these 
other  qualities  are  his  priceless  and  total  sin- 
cerity, and  the  splendid  human  generosity 
which  colours  that  sincerity.  What  above  all 
else  we  want  in  this  island  of  intellectual 
dishonesty  is  someone  who  will  tell  us  the 
truth  "  and  chance  it."  H.  G.  Wells  is  pre- 
eminently that  man.  He  might  have  told 
us  the  truth  with  cynicism;  he  might  have 
told  it  meanly;  he  might  have  told  it 
tediously — and  he  would  still  have  been 
invaluable.  But  it  does  just  happen  that  he 
has  combined  a  disconcerting  and  entranc- 
ing candour  with  a  warmth  of  generosity 
towards  mankind  and  an  inspiring  faith  in 
mankind  such  as  no  other  living  writer,  not 
even  the  most  sentimental,  has  surpassed. 
And  yet  in  the  immediate  past  we  have 
heard  journalists  pronouncing  coldly:  "  This 
thing  is  not  so  bad."  And  we  have  heard 
journalists  asserting  in  tones  of  shocked  rep- 
rehension: "This  thing  is  not  free  from 
faults!"     Who  the  deuce  said  it  was  free 

297 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2  Feh.  'ii  from  faults?  But  where  in  fiction,  ancient  or 
modern,  will  you  find  another  philosophical 
picture  of  a  whole  epoch  and  society  as 
brilliant  and  as  honest  as  "  The  New  Machia- 
velli"?  Well,  I  will  tell  you  where  you 
will  find  it.  You  will  find  it  in  "  Tono- 
Bungay."  H.  G.  Wells  is  a  bit  of  sheer  luck 
for  England.  Some  countries  don't  know 
their  luck.  And  as  I  do  not  believe  that 
England  is  worse  than  another,  I  will  say 
that  no  country  knows  its  luck.  However, 
as  regards  this  particular  bit,  there  are  now 
some  clear  signs  of  a  growing  perception. 

The  social  and  political  questions  raised 
in  "  The  New  Machiavelli "  might  be  dis- 
cussed at  length  with  great  advantage.  But 
this  province  is  not  mine.  Nor  could  the 
Tightness  or  the  wrongness  of  the  hero's  views 
and  acts  affect  the  artistic  value  of  the  novel. 
On  purely  artistic  grounds  the  novel  might 
be  criticized  in  several  ways  unfavourably. 
But  in  my  opinion  it  has  only  one  fault 
that  to  any  appreciable  extent  impairs  its 
artistic  worth.  The  politically-creative  part, 
as  distinguished  from  the  politically-shat- 
tering part,  is  not  convincing.  The  hero's 
change  of  party,  and  his  popular  success 
with    the    policy    of    the    endowment    of 

298 


"  THE  NEW  MACHIAVELLI  " 

motherhood  are  indeed  strangely  unconvinc-  2  Feb.  '11 
ing — inconceivable  to  commonsense.  Here 
the  author's  hand  has  trembled,  and  his  per- 
suasive power  forsaken  him.  Happily  he 
recaptured  it  for  the  final  catastrophe,  which 
is  absolutely  magnificent,  a  masterpiece  of 
unforced  poignant  tragedy  and  unsentimental 
tenderness. 


299 


SUCCESS  IN  JOURNALISM 
i6  Feb.  'II  It  is  notorious  that  in  London — happily 
so  different  from  other  capitals — there  is  no 
connexion  between  the  advertisement  and  the 
editorial  departments  of  the  daily  papers. 
It  is  positively  known,  for  instance,  that  the 
exuberant  editorial  praise  poured  out  upon 
the  new  "  Encyclopaedia  Britannica "  has 
no  connexion  whatever  with  the  tremendous 
sums  paid  by  the  Cambridge  University 
Press  for  advertising  the  said  work  of 
reference.  The  almost  simultaneous  appear- 
ance of  the  advertisements  and  of  the  super- 
lative reviews  is  a  pure  coincidence.  Now, 
in  Paris  it  would  not  be  a  coincidence,  and 
nobody  would  have  the  courage  to  pretend 
that  it  was.  But  London  is  a  city  apart. 
In  view  of  this  admitted  fact  I  was  in- 
tensely startled,  not  to  say  outraged,  by  a 
conversation  at  which  I  assisted  the  other 
day.  A  young  acquaintance,  with  literary 
and  journalistic  proclivities,  and  with  a 
touching  belief  in  the  high  mission  of  the 
London  press,  desired  advice  as  to  the  best 
method  of  reaching  the  top  rungs  of  the 
ladder  of  which  he  had  not  yet  set  foot  even 
on  the  lowest  rung.  I  therefore  invited  him 
to   meet   a   celebrated    friend   of   mine,    an 

300 


SUCCESS  IN  JOURNALISM 

author  and   a  journalist,   who   has   recently  i<^  Feb.  'ii 
quitted  an  important  editorial  chair. 

The  latter  spoke  to  him  as  follows :  "  My 
dear  boy,  you  had  better  get  a  situation  in 
the  advertisement  department  of  a  paper — 
no  matter  what  paper,  provided  it  has  a 
large  advertisement  revenue;  and  no  matter 
what  situation,  however  modest."  Here  the 
youth  interrupted  with  the  remark  that  his 
desire  was  the  editorial  department.  The 
ex-editor  proceeded  calmly:  "  I  have  quite 
grasped  that.  .  .  .  Well,  you  must  work 
yourself  up  in  the  advertisement  depart- 
ment! What  you  chiefly  require  for  success 
is  a  good  suit,  a  good  club,  an  imperturbable 
manner,  and  a  cultivated  taste  in  restaurants 
and  bars.  In  your  spare  time  you  must  write 
long  dull  articles  for  the  reviews;  and  you 
must  re-discover  London  in  a  series  of  snap- 
pish sketches  for  a  half-penny  daily,  and 
also  write  a  novel  that  is  just  true  enough 
to  frighten  the  libraries  and  not  too  true  to 
make  them  refuse  it  altogether:  it  must  abso- 
lutely be  such  a  novel  as  they  will  supply 
only  to  such  subscribers  as  insist  on  having 
it.  When  you  have  worked  your  way  very 
high  up  in  the  advertisement  department, 
and  are  intimate  with  advertisement  agents 

301 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i6  Feb.  'ii  and  large  advertisers  to  the  point  of  being 
able  to  influence  advertisements  amounting 
to  fifty  thousand  pounds  a  year — then,  and 
not  before,  you  may  look  about  you  and 
decide  what  big  serious  daily  paper  you 
would  like  to  assist  in  editing.  Make  your 
own  choice.  Then  see  the  proprietor.  If  he 
is  not  already  in  the  House  of  Lords,  he 
will  assuredly  be  on  Mr.  Asquith's  private 
list  of  five  hundred  candidates  for  the  House 
of  Lords.  The  best  moment  to  catch  him 
is  as  he  comes  out  of  the  Palace  Theatre, 
about  a  quarter  past  eleven  of  a  night.  Tell 
him  on  the  pavement  that  you  have  edited 
a  paper  in  Chicago,  and  he  will  at  once  in- 
vite you  into  his  automobile.  You  go  with 
him  to  his  club,  and  then  you  confess  that 
you  have  not  edited  a  paper  in  Chicago,  but 
that  you  have  adopted  this  device  in  order 
to  get  speech  with  him,  and  that  all  you 
desire  is  a  humble  post  on  the  editorial  staff 
of  his  big  serious  daily. 

"  He  will  insult  you.  He  will  inform  you 
that  he  has  forty  candidates  for  the  most 
insignificant  post  on  the  editorial  staff,  and 
that  there  is  not  the  remotest  chance  for  you. 
You  then  tell  him  that  you  are  an  expert 
writer,  a  contributor  to  the  monthlies  and 

302 


SUCCESS   IN   JOURNALISM 

quarterlies,  and  the  author  of  a  novel  which  i6  Feb.  'ii 
Mr.  James  Douglas  has  described  as  the  most 
stupendously  virile  work  of  fiction  since 
Turgeneff's  '  Crime  and  Punishment.'  He 
will  insult  you  anew,  and  demand  your 
immediate  departure.  You  then  say  to  him, 
in  a  casual  tone :  ^  I  can  bring  you  ten  thou- 
sand pounds'  worth  of  ads.  a  year.'  He  will 
read  your  deepest  soul  with  one  glance,  and 
will  reply,  in  a  casual  tone,  *  I  daresay  I 
could  find  you  something  regular  to  do  on 
the  magazine  page.'  You  go  on  airily:  '  I'm 
pretty  sure  I  can  bring  twenty  thousand 
pounds'  worth  of  ads.  a  year.'  He  will 
then  order  R.P.  Muria  cigars,  and  say  with 
benevolence:  '  It  just  happens  that  the  head 
of  our  reviewing  department  is  under  notice. 
How  would  that  suit  you?'  You  then  un- 
mask all  your  batteries,  and  tell  him  squarely 
that  you  can  bring  him  advertisements  to 
the  tune  of  a  thousand  pounds  a  week. 
Whereupon  he  will  reply,  shaking  you  fra- 
ternally by  the  hand :  '  My  dear  fellow,  I 
will  make  you  editor  at  once.' " 

So  spake  my  celebrated  friend.  Of  course, 
he  is  a  cynic.  He  may  be  a  criminal  cynic. 
But  he  spake  so.  From  time  to  time  Lon- 
don  dailies   do   me   the   honour   to   reprint 

303 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

i6  Feb.  'II  saucy  paragraphs  from  this  weekly  article  of 
mine.  My  friend  said  to  me:  "You  can 
print  what  I've  said,  if  you  like.  No  daily 
paper  in  London  will  reprint  that" 


304 


MARGUERITE  AUDOUX 

Among  the  astonishing  phenomena  of  a  ^  March  'ii 
spring  season  which  promises  to  be  quite  as 
successful,  in  its  way,  as  the  very  glorious 
autumn  season  (publishers  must  have  spent 
a  happy  Christmas!)  is  the  success  of  a  really 
distinguished  book.  I  mean  "  Marie  Claire." 
Frankly,  I  did  not  anticipate  this  triumph. 
For,  of  course,  it  is  very  difficult  for  an 
author  of  experience  to  believe  that  a  good 
book  will  be  well  received.  However, 
"  Marie  Claire  "  has  been  helped  by  a  series 
of  extraordinary  reviews.  No  novel  of  re- 
cent years  has  had  such  favourable  reviews, 
or  so  many  of  them,  or  such  long  ones.  I 
have  seen  all  of  them — all  except  one  have 
been  very  laudatory — and  I  am  in  a  position 
to  state  that  if  placed  end  to  end  they  would 
stretch  from  Miss  Corelli's  house  in  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon  across  the  main  to  Mr.  Hall 
Caine's  castle  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  This  may 
be  called  praise.  One  of  the  best,  if  not  the 
best,  was  signed  "  J.  L.  G."  in  the  Observer. 
It  is  indeed  a  solemn  and  terrifying  thought 
that  Mr.  Garvin,  who,  by  means  of  thor- 
oughly bad  prose  persisted  in  during  many 
years,  has  at  last  laid  the  Tory  Party  in  ruins, 
should  be  so  excellent  a  judge  of  literature. 

305 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2  March  'ii  Mr.  Garvin  made  his  debut  in  the  London 
Press,  I  think,  as  a  literary  critic;  and  it  is 
a  pity  (from  the  Tory  point  of  view)  that  he 
did  not  remain  a  literary  critic.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  Mr.  Balfour  and  Lord  Lans- 
downe  would  personally  subscribe  large  sums 
to  found  a  literary  paper  for  him  to  edit,  on 
condition  that  he  promised  never  to  write 
another  line  of  advice  to  their  party.  The 
Telegraph  would  bleed  copiously;  the  Ob- 
server would  expire;  the  Fortnightly  Review 
would  stagger  in  its  heavy  stride,  but  there 
would  be  hope  for  Tories!  ...  In  the 
meantime,  five  thousand  copies  of  the  English 
translation  of  "Marie  Claire"  were  sold 
within  a  week  of  publication.  It  is  improb- 
able that  the  total  English  sale  will  be  less 
than  ten  thousand.  Now  translated  novels 
rarely  achieve  popularity.  The  last  one  to 
be  popular  here  was  Fogazzaro's  "  The 
Saint";  but  the  popularity  of  "The 
Saint "  was  not  due  to  artistic  causes. 

I  think  I  may  say  that  I  am  thoroughly 
accustomed  to  the  society  of  women- 
novelists.  Peculiar  circumstances  in  my 
obscure  life  have  thrown  me  among  women- 
writers  of  all  sorts;  and  I  can  boast  that  I 
have  helped  to  form  more  than  one  woman- 

306 


MARGUERITE  AUDOUX 

novelist;  so  that  the  prospect  of  meeting  z  March  'u 
a  new  one  does  not  agitate  me  in  the  slightest 
degree.  I  make  friends  with  the  new  one 
at  once,  and  in  about  two  minutes  we  are 
discussing  prices  with  the  most  touching 
familiarity.  Nevertheless,  I  own  that  I  was 
somewhat  disturbed  in  my  Midland  phlegm 
when  the  author  of  "  Marie  Claire  "  came  to 
see  me.  The  book,  read  in  the  light  of  the 
circumstances  of  its  composition,  had  un- 
usually impressed  me  and  stirred  my  imagi- 
nation. It  was  not  the  woman-novelist 
who  was  coming  to  see  me,  but  Marie  Claire 
herself,  shepherdess,  farm-servant,  and  semp- 
stress; it  was  a  mysterious  creature  who  had 
known  how  to  excite  enthusiasm  in  a  whole 
regiment  of  literary  young  men.  .  .  .  And 
literary  young  men  as  a  rule  are  extremely 
harsh,  even  offensive,  in  their  attitude 
towards  women-writers.  I  stood  at  the  top 
of  the  toy-stairs  of  the  pavilion  which  I  was 
then  occupying  in  Paris,  and  Madame 
Marguerite  Audoux  came  up  the  stairs 
towards  me,  preceded  by  one  of  her  young 
sponsors,  and  followed  by  another.  A 
rather  short,  plump  little  lady,  very  simply 
dressed,  and  with  the  simplest  possible 
manner — just  such  a  comfortable  human 
being    as    in    my    part    of    the    world    is 

307 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2  March  'ii  called  a  "  body  "  !  She  had,  however,  eyes 
of  a  softness  and  depth  such  as  are  not 
seen  in  my  part  of  the  world.  With  that, 
a  very  quiet,  timid,  and  sweet  voice.  She 
was  a  sempstress;  she  looked  like  a  semp- 
stress; and  she  was  well  content  to  look 
like  a  sempstress.  Nobody  would  have 
guessed  in  ten  thousand  guesses  that  here 
was  the  author  of  the  European  book  of  the 
year.  But  when  she  talked  the  resemblance 
to  the  sempstress  soon  vanished.  Semp- 
stresses— of  whom  I  have  also  known  many 
— do  not  talk  as  she  talked.  Not  that  she 
said  much!  Not  that  she  began  to  talk  at 
once!  Far  from  it.  When  I  had  referred 
to  the  goodness  of  her  visit,  and  she  had 
referred  to  the  goodness  of  my  invitation, 
and  she  was  ensconced  in  an  arm-chair  near 
the  fire,  she  quite  simply  left  the  pioneer 
work  of  conversation  to  her  bodyguard.  Her 
bodyguard  was  very  proud,  and  very  nervous, 
as  befitted  its  age. 

It  was  my  reference  to  Dostoievsky  that 
first  started  her  talking.  In  all  literary  con- 
versations Dostoievsky  is  my  King  Charles's 
head.  She  had  previously  stated  that  she 
had  read  very  little  indeed.  But  at  any  rate 
.   she   had    read    Dostoievsky,    and   was   well 

308 


MARGUERITE  AUDOUX 

minded  to  share  my  enthusiasms.  Indeed,  2  March  '11 
Dostoievsky  drew  her  out  of  her  arm-chair 
and  right  across  the  room.  We  were  soon 
discussing  methods  of  work,  and  I  learnt 
that  she  worked  very  slowly  indeed,  destroy- 
ing much,  and  feeling  her  way  inch  by  inch 
rather  than  seeing  it  clear  ahead.  She  said 
that  her  second  book,  dealing  with  her  life 
in  Paris,  might  not  be  ready  for  years.  It 
was  evident  that  she  profoundly  understood 
the  nature  of  work — all  sorts  of  work.  Work 
had,  indeed,  left  its  honourable  and  fine 
mark  upon  her.  She  made  some  very  subtle 
observations  about  the  psychology  of  it,  but 
unfortunately  I  cannot  adequately  report 
them  here.  .  .  .  From  work  to  prices, 
naturally  I  It  was  pleasing  to  find  that  she 
had  a  very  sane  and  proper  curiosity  as  to 
prices  and  conditions  in  England.  After  I 
had  somewhat  satisfied  this  curiosity  she 
showed  an  equally  sane  and  proper  annoy- 
ance at  the  fact  that  the  English  and  Ameri- 
can rights  of  "  Marie  Claire "  had  been 
sold  outright  for  a  ridiculous  sum.  She 
told  me  the  exact  sum.  It  was  either  £16 
or  £20 — I  forget  which. 

When  Madame  Audoux  had  gone  I   re- 
viewed my  notions  of  her  visit,  and  I  came 

309 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

2  March  'ii  to  the  conclusion  that  she  was  very  like  her 
book.  She  had  said  little,  and  nothing  that 
was  striking,  but  she  had  mysteriously  ema- 
nated an  atmosphere  of  artistic  distinction. 
She  was  a  true  sensitive.  She  had  had 
immense  and  deep  experience  of  life,  but 
her  adventures,  often  difficult,  had  not  dis- 
turbed the  nice  balance  of  her  judgment, 
nor  impaired  the  delicacy  of  her  impressions. 
She  was  an  amateur  of  life.  She  was  awake 
to  all  aspects  of  it.  And  a  calm  common- 
sense  presided  over  her  magnanimous  ver- 
dicts. She  was  far  too  wary,  sagacious,  and 
well  acquainted  with  real  values  to  allow 
herself  to  be  spoilt,  even  the  least  bit,  by  a 
perilous  success,  however  brilliant.  Such 
were  my  notions.  But  it  is  not  in  a  single 
interview  that  one  can  arrive  at  a  due  esti- 
mate of  a  mind  so  reserved,  dreamy,  and 
complex  as  hers.  The  next  day  she  left 
Paris,  and  I  have  not  seen  her  since. 


310 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 

I  OPENED  Mr.  John  Masefield's  novel  of  20  April  '12 
modern  London,  "  The  Street  of  To-day " 
(Dent  and  Co.),  with  much  interest.  But 
I  found  it  very  difficult  to  read.  This  is  a 
damning  criticism;  but  what  would  you 
have?  I  found  it  very  difficult  to  read. 
It  is  very  earnest,  very  sincere,  very  care- 
fully and  generously  done.  But  these  quali- 
ties will  not  save  it.  Even  its  intelligence, 
and  its  alert  critical  attitude  towards  life, 
will  not  save  it.  I  could  say  a  great  deal 
of  good  about  it,  and  yet  all  that  I  could 
say  in  its  favour  would  not  avail.  It  would 
certainly  be  better  if  it  were  considerably 
shorter.  I  estimate  that  between  fifty  and 
a  hundred  pages  of  small  talk  and  mis- 
cellaneous observation  could  be  safely  re- 
moved from  it  without  impairing  the  co- 
herence of  the  story.  The  amount  of  small 
talk  recorded  is  simply  terrific.  Not  bad 
small  talk!  Heard  in  real  life,  it  would 
be  reckoned  rather  good  small  talkl  But 
artistically  futile!  Small  talk,  and  cleverer 
small  talk  than  this,  smothered  and  ruined 
a  novel  more  dramatic  than  this — I  mean 
Mr.  Zangwill's  "The  Master."  I  am  con- 
vinced that  a  novel  ought  to  be  dramatic — 

311 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

20  April  'ii  intellectually,  spiritually,  or  physically — and 
"  The  Street  of  To-day "  is  not  dramatic. 
It  is  always  about  to  be  dramatic  and  it 
never  is.  Chapter  III,  for  instance,  contains 
very  important  material,  essential  to  the  tale, 
fundamental.  But  it  is  not  presented  dra- 
matically. It  is  presented  in  the  form  of  a 
psychological  essay.  Now  Mr.  Masefield's 
business  as  a  novelist  was  to  have  invented 
happenings  for  the  presentment  of  the  in- 
formation contained  in  this  essay.  He  has 
saved  himself  a  lot  of  trouble,  but  to  my 
mind  he  has  not  yet  come  to  understand  what 
a  novel  is. 

His  creative  power  is  not  yet  mature. 
That  is  to  say,  he  does  not  convince  the 
reader  in  the  measure  which  one  would 
expect  from  a  writer  of  his  undoubted 
emotional  faculty.  And  yet  he  is  often 
guilty  of  carelessness  in  corroborative  detail 
— such  carelessness  as  only  a  mighty  tyrant 
over  the  reader  could  afford.  The  story  deals 
largely  with  journalism.  And  one  of  the 
papers  most  frequently  mentioned  is  "  The 
Backwash."  Now  no  paper  could  possibly 
be  called  "  The  Backwash."  It  is  conceiv- 
able that  a  paper  might  be  called  "  The  Tip 
Top."     It  is  just  conceivable  that  a  paper 

312 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 

might  be  called  "  Snip  Snap."  But  "  The  20  Apnl  '11 
Backwash,"  never!  Mr.  Masefield  knows 
this  as  well  as  anybody.  The  aim  of  his 
nomenclature  was  obviously  satiric — an  old 
dodge  which  did  very  well  in  the  loose 
Victorian  days,  but  which  is  excruciatingly 
out  of  place  in  a  modern  strictly-realistic 
novel.  A  trifle,  you  say!  Not  at  all!  Every 
time  "  The  Backwash "  is  mentioned,  the 
reader  thinks:  "No  paper  called  'The 
Backwash  '  ever  existed."  And  a  fresh  break 
is  made  in  Mr.  Masefield's  convincingness. 
A  modern  novelist  may  not  permit  himself 
these  freakish  negligences.  Another  instance 
of  the  same  fault  is  the  Christian  name  of 
Mrs.  Bailey  in  "The  New  Machiavelli." 
It  was  immensely  clever  of  Mr.  Wells  to 
christen  her  "  Altiora."  But  in  so  doing  he 
marred  the  extraordinary  brilliance  of  his 
picture  of  her.  If  you  insist  that  I  am  talk- 
ing about  trifles,  I  can  only  insist  that  a 
work  of  art  is  a  series  of  trifles. 

Mr.  Masefield's  style  suffers  in  a  singular 
manner.  It  is  elaborate  in  workmanship — 
perhaps  to  the  point  of  an  excessive  self- 
consciousness.  But  its  virtue  is  constantly 
being  undermined  by  inexactitudes  which 
irritate  and  produce  doubt.     For  example: 

313 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

20  April  'II  "  They  entered  the  tube  station.  In  the  train 
they  could  not  talk  much.  Lionel  kept  his 
brain  alert  with  surmise  as  to  the  character 
of  the  passengers.  Like  Blake,  a  century  be- 
fore, he  found  '  marks  of  weakness,  marks 
of  woe,'  on  each  face  there."  Blake  in  the 
tubel  Mr.  Masefield  will  produce  a  much 
better  novel  than  "  The  Street  of  To-day." 


314 


LECTURES  AND  STATE 
PERFORMANCES 

Driven  by  curiosity  I  went  to  hear  Mr.  25  May  '11 
H.  G.  Wells'  lecture  last  Thursday  at  the 
Times  Book  Club  on  "  The  Scope  of  the 
Novel."  Despite  the  physical  conditions 
of  heat  and  noise,  and  an  open  window 
exactly  behind  the  lecturer  (whose  voice  thus 
flowed  just  as  much  into  a  back  street  as 
into  the  ears  of  his  auditors),  the  affair  was 
a  success,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  the 
Times  Book  Club  will  pursue  the  enterprise 
further.  It  was  indeed  a  remarkable  phe- 
nomenon: a  first-class  artist  speaking  the 
truth  about  fiction  to  a  crowd  of  circulating- 
library  subscribers!  Mr.  Wells  was  above  all 
defiant;  he  contrived  to  put  in  some  very 
plain  speaking  about  Thackeray,  and  he 
finished  by  asserting  that  it  was  futile  for 
the  fashionable  public  to  murmur  against 
the  intellectual  demands  of  the  best  modern 
fiction, — there  was  going  to  be  no  change 
unless  it  might  be  a  change  in  the  direction 
of  the  more  severe,  the  more  candid,  and  the 
more  exhaustively  curious. 

Of  course  the  lecturer  had  to  vulgarise  his 
messages  so  as  to  get  them  safely  into  the 

315 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

25  May  'II  brain  of  the  audience.  What  an  audience! 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  saw  the 
"library"  public  in  the  massl  It  is  a  sight 
to  make  one  think.  My  cab  had  gone  up 
Bond  Street  where  the  fortune-tellers  flour- 
ish, and  their  flags  wave  in  the  wind,  and 
their  painted  white  hands  point  alluringly 
up  mysterious  staircases.  These  fortune- 
tellers make  a  tolerable  deal  of  money,  and 
the  money  they  make  must  come  out 
chiefly  of  the  pockets  of  well-dressed  library 
subscribers.  Not  a  doubt  but  that  many  of 
Mr.  Wells'  audience  were  clients  of  the  sooth- 
sayers. A  strange  multitude!  It  appeared 
to  consist  of  a  thousand  women  and  Mr. 
Bernard  Shaw.  Women  deemed  to  be  ele- 
gant, women  certainly  deeming  themselves 
to  be  elegant!  I,  being  far  from  the  rostrum, 
had  a  good  view  of  the  backs  of  their  blouses, 
chemisettes  and  bodices.  What  an  assortment 
of  pretentious  and  ill-made  toilettes!  What 
disclosures  of  clumsy  hooks-and-eyes  and 
general  creased  carelessness!  It  would  not 
do  for  me  to  behold  the  "library"  public 
in  the  mass  too  often! 

I  could  not  but  think  of  the  State  per- 
formance of  "  Money "  at  Drury  Lane  on 
the  previous  night:  that  amusing  smack  at 

316 


STATE  PERFORMANCES 

living  artists.  There  has  been  a  good  deal  25  May  '11 
of  straight  talk  about  it  in  the  daily  and 
weekly  papers.  But  the  psychology  of  the 
matter  has  not  been  satisfactorily  explained. 
Blame  has  been  laid  at  the  King's  door.  I 
think  wrongly,  or  at  least  unfairly.  Besides 
being  one  of  the  two  best  shots  in  the  United 
Kingdom,  the  King  is  beyond  any  question 
a  man  of  honourable  intentions  and  of  a 
strict  conscientiousness.  But  it  is  no  part 
of  his  business  to  be  sufficiently  expert  to 
choose  a  play  for  a  State  performance.  He 
has  never  pretended  to  have  artistic  proclivi- 
ties. Who  among  you,  indeed,  could  be 
relied  upon  to  choose  properly  a  play  for 
a  State  performance?  Take  the  best  mod- 
ern plays.  Who  among  you  would  dare  to 
suggest  for  a  State  performance  Oscar 
Wilde's  "  The  Importance  of  Being  Ear- 
nest," Bernard  Shaw's  "  Man  and  Superman," 
John  Galsworthy's  "Justice,"  or  Granville 
Barker's  "The  Voysey  Inheritance"?  No- 
body! These  plays  are  unthinkable  for  a 
State  performance,  because  their  distinc- 
tion is  utterly  beyond  the  average  compre- 
hension of  the  ruling  classes, — and  State 
performances  are  for  the  ruling  classes. 
These  plays  are  simply  too  good.  Yet 
if    you    don't    choose     an    old    play    you 

317 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

25  May  'II  must  choose  one  of  these  four  plays,  or 
make  the  worst  of  both  worlds.  Modem 
plays  being  ruled  out,  you  must  either  have 
Shakespeare  or — or  what?  What  is  there? 
"The  Cenci"? 

Can  you  not  now  sympathize  with  the 
King  as  he  ran  through,  in  his  mind, 
the  whole  range  of  British  drama?  But  the 
truth  is  that  he  did  not  run  through  the 
whole  range  of  British  drama.  Invariably 
in  these  cases  a  list  is  submitted  for  the 
sovereign  to  choose  from.  It  is  an  open 
secret  that  in  this  particular  case  such  a 
list  was  prepared.  Whether  or  not  it  was 
prepared  by  Mr.  Arthur  Collins,  organizer 
of  Drury  Lane  pantomimes,  I  cannot  say. 
The  list  contained  Shakespeare  and  Lytton, 
and  I  don't  know  who  else.  Conceivably 
the  King  did  not  want  Shakespeare.  To 
my  mind  he  would  be  quite  justified  in  not 
wanting  Shakespeare.  We  are  glutted  with 
Shakespeare  in  the  Haymarket.  Well,  then, 
— why  not  "Money"?  It  is  a  famous  play. 
We  all  know  its  name  and  the  name  of  its 
author.  And  that  is  the  limit  of  our 
knowledge.  Why  should  the  King  be  sup- 
posed to  be  acquainted  with  its  extreme 
badness?    I  confess  I  didn't  know  it  was  so 

318 


STATE  PERFORMANCES 

bad  as  now  it  seems  to  be.  And,  not  very  ^5  ^^y  *^^ 
long  ago,  was  not  Sir  William  Robertson 
Nicoll  defending  the  genius  of  Lytton  in  the 
British  Weekly?  It  is  now  richly  apparent 
that  "  Money "  ought  not  to  have  been  in- 
cluded in  the  list  submitted  to  the  King. 
But  it  is  easy  to  be  wise  after  the 
event. 


Let  it  be  for  ever  understood  that  State 
theatres  and  State  performances  never  have 
had,  never  will  have,  any  real  connexion 
with  original  dramatic  art.  That  is  one  rea- 
son why  I  am  against  a  national  theatre, 
whose  influence  on  the  drama  is  bound  to 
be  sinister.  To  count  the  performance  of 
"  Money "  as  an  insult  to  living  artists  is 
to  lose  sight  of  a  main  factor  in  the  case. 
The  State  and  living  art  must  be  mutually 
opposed,  for  the  reason  that  the  State  must, 
and  quite  rightly  does,  represent  the  average 
of  opinion.  For  an  original  artist  to  expect 
aid  from  the  State  is  silly;  it  is  also  wrong. 
In  expressing  a  particular  regard  for  the 
feelings  of  musical  comedy,  and  in  announc- 
ing beforehand  his  intention  of  being  present 
at  the  first  night  of  the  new  Gaiety  master- 
piece, the  King  was  properly  fulfilling  his 

319 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

25  May  '11  duties  as  a  monarch  towards  dramatic  art. 
Art  is  not  the  whole  of  life,  and  to  adore 
musical  comedy  is  not  a  crime.  The  best 
thing  original  artists  can  do  is  to  keep  their 
perspective  undistorted. 


320 


A  PLAY  OF  TCHEHKOFF'S 

At  last,  thanks  to  the  Stage  Society,  we  8  June  'u 
have  had  a  good  representative  play  of 
Anton  Tchehkofif  on  the  London  stage. 
Needless  to  say,  Tchehkofif  was  done  in  the 
provinces  long  ago.  "  The  Cherry  Orchard," 
I  have  been  told,  is  Tchehkoff's  dramatic 
masterpiece,  and  I  can  well  believe  it.  But 
it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  present  foreign 
masterpieces  to  a  West  End  audience,  and 
the  directors  of  the  Stage  Society  dis- 
covered, or  re-discovered,  this  fact  on  Sun- 
day night  last.  The  reception  of  "  The 
Cherry  Orchard  "  was  something  like  what 
the  reception  of  Ibsen's  plays  used  to  be 
twenty  years  ago.  It  was  scarcely  even  a 
mixed  reception.  There  could  be  no  mis- 
take about  the  failure  of  the  play  to  please 
the  vast  majority  of  the  members  of  the 
Society.  At  the  end  of  the  second  act  signs 
of  disapproval  were  very  manifest  indeed, 
and  the  exodus  from  the  theatre  began.  A 
competent  authority  informed  me  that  at 
the  end  of  the  third  act  half  the  audience 
had  departed;  but  in  the  narrative  fever  of 
the  moment  the  competent  authority  may 
have  slightly  exaggerated.  Certain  it  is 
that  multitudes  preferred  Aldwych  and  the 

321 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

8  June  'ii  restaurant-concerts,  or  even  their  own  homes, 
to  Tchehkoff's  play.  And  as  the  evening  was 
the  Sabbath  you  may  judge  the  extreme 
degree  of  their  detestation  of  the  play. 

A  director  of  the  Stage  Society  said  to  me 
on  the  Monday:  "If  our  people  won't 
stand  it,  it  has  no  chance,  because  we  have 
the  pick  here."  I  didn't  contradict  him, 
but  I  by  no  means  agreed  that  he  had  the 
pick  there.  The  managing  committee  of 
the  Society  is  a  very  enlightened  body;  but 
the  mass  of  the  members  is  just  as  stupid  as 
any  other  mass.  Its  virtue  is  that  it  pays 
subscriptions,  thus  enabling  the  committee  to 
make  experiments  and  to  place  before  the 
forty  or  fifty  persons  in  London  who  really 
can  judge  a  play  the  sort  of  play  which  is 
worthy  of  curiosity. 

In  spite  of  the  antipathy  which  is  aroused, 
"  The  Cherry  Orchard  "  is  quite  inoffensive. 
For  example,  there  is  nothing  in  it  to  which 
the  Censor  could  possibly  object.  It  does 
not  deal  specially  with  sex.  It  presents  an 
average  picture  of  Russian  society.  But 
it  presents  the  picture  with  such  exact,  un- 
comprising  truthfulness  that  the  members 
of  the  Stage  Society  mistook  nearly  all  the 

322 


A  PLAY  OF  TCHEHKOFF'S 

portraits  for  caricatures,  and  tedious  carica-  8  June  'ii 
tures.  In  naturalism  the  play  is  assuredly 
an  advance  on  any  other  play  that  I  have 
seen  or  that  has  been  seen  in  England.  Its 
naturalism  is  positively  daring.  The  author 
never  hesitates  to  make  his  personages  as 
ridiculous  as  in  life  they  would  be.  In  this 
he  differs  from  every  other  playwright  that 
I  know  of.  Ibsen,  for  instance;  and  Henri 
Becque.  He  has  carried  an  artistic  conven- 
tion much  nearer  to  reality,  and  achieved 
another  step  in  the  evolution  of  the  drama. 
The  consequence  is  that  he  is  accused  of 
untruth  and  exaggeration,  as  Becque  was, 
as  Ibsen  was.  His  truthfulness  frightens,  and 
causes  resentment. 

People  say:  "No  such  persons  exist,  or 
at  any  rate  such  persons  are  too  exceptional 
to  form  proper  material  for  a  work  of  art." 
No  such  persons,  I  admit,  exist  in  England; 
but  then  this  play  happens  to  be  concerned 
with  Russia,  and  even  the  men's  costumes 
in  it  are  appalling.  Moreover,  persons 
equally  ridiculous  and  futile  do  exist  in 
England,  and  by  the  hundred  thousand; 
only  they  are  ridiculous  and  futile  in  ways 
familiar  to  us.  I  guarantee  that  if  any  ten 
average  members  of  the  august  Stage  Society 

323 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

8  June  'ii  itself  were  faithfully  portrayed  on  the  stage, 
with  all  their  mannerisms,  absurdities  and 
futilities,  the  resulting  picture  would  be 
damned  as  a  gross  and  offensive  caricature. 
People  never  look  properly  at  people;  people 
take  people  for  granted;  they  remain  blind 
to  the  facts;  and  when  an  artist  comes  along 
and  discloses  more  of  these  facts  than  it  is 
usual  to  disclose,  of  course  there  is  a  row. 
This  row  is  a  fine  thing;  it  means  that  some- 
thing has  been  done.  And  I  hope  that  the 
directors  of  the  Stage  Society  are  proud  of  the 
reception  of  "  The  Cherry  Orchard."  They 
ought  to  be. 


324 


w- 


SEA  AND  SLAUGHTER 

Recent  spectacular  events  at  Court  have  6  July  '  ii 
been  the  cause  of  a  considerable  amount  of 
verse,  indifferent  or  offensive.  But  it  is  to 
be  noticed  that  the  poets  of  this  realm  have 
not  been  inspired  by  the  said  events.  I 
mean  such  writers  as  W.  B.  Yeats,  Robert 
Bridges,  Lord  Alfred  Douglas,  W.  H.  Davies. 
And  yet  I  see  no  reason  why  a  Coronation, 
even  in  this  day  of  figure-heads  and  revolting 
snobbery,  should  not  be  the  subject  of  a 
good  poem — a  poem  which  would  not  be 
afflicting  to  read,  either  for  the  lettered  pub- 
lic or  for  the  chief  actor  in  the  scene.  How- 
ever, the  time  for  such  poems  has  apparently 
not  yet  arrived.  And  meanwhile  the  sea- 
and-slaughter  school  have  been  doing  an 
excellent  work  these  last  few  weeks  in  dem- 
onstrating how  entirely  absurd  the  sea-and- 
slaughter  school  is.  Mr,  Alfred  Noyes  has 
been  very  prominent,  not  only  in  his  native 
page,  Blackwood's,  but  also  in  the  Fort- 
nightly Review.  Mr.  Noyes  is,  I  believe, 
the  only  living  versifier  whose  books  are, 
in  the  words  of  an  American  editor,  "  a 
commercial  proposition."  He  is  by  many 
thought  to  be  a  poet.  Personally,  I  have 
always  classed  him  with  Alfred  Austin,  not 

325 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

6  July  'ii  yet  having  come  across  one  single  stanza 
of  his  which  would  fall  within  my  definition 
of  poetry.  Here  is  an  extract  from  his 
"A  Salute  from  the  Fleet":— 

Mother,  O  grey  sea-mother,  thine  is  the 
crowning  cry — 

I  am  bound  to  interrupt  the  quotation  here 
in  order  to  vent  my  feelings  of  extreme 
irritation  caused  by  the  mere  phrase,  "  O 
gney  sea-mother."  Why  should  this  phrase 
drive  me  to  fury?  It  does.  Well,  to  re- 
commence : — 

Mother,  O  grey  sea-mother,  thine  is  the 
crowning  cry! 

Thine  the  glory  for  ever  in  the  nation  born 
of  thy  womb! 

Thine  is  the  Sword  and  the  Shield  and  the 
shout  that  Salamis  heard. 

Surging  in  Mschylean  splendour,  earth- 
shaking  acclaim! 

Ocean-mother  of  England,  thine  is  the 
throne  of  her  fame! 

Fancy  standing  on  the  shore  to-day  and 
addressing  the  real  sea  in  these  words  and 
accents!  Fancy  the  poet  doing  it!  The 
mood  and  the  mentality  are  prehistoric.  I 
would  not  mind  Mr.  Noyes  putting  himself 

326 


SEA  AND  SLAUGHTER 

lyrically  into  the  woaded  skin  of  our  ances-  ^  ^^h  '^^ 
tors.  But  I  do  think  he  might  have  got  a 
little  nearer  the  mark  in  indicating  the 
"  throne  of  her  fame."  Because  I  expect 
Mr.  Noyes  knows  as  well  as  anybody  that 
the  real  throne  of  England's  fame  is  not  in 
the  sea  at  all.  England's  true  fame  springs 
from  the  few  acts  of  national  justice  which 
she  has  accomplished,  and  from  the  generous 
impulses  which  as  a  nation  she  has  had — as, 
for  example,  in  her  relations  with  Italy;  as, 
for  example,  in  the  Factory  Acts  which  pre- 
vented children  from  working  eighteen  hours 
a  day  six  or  seven  days  a  week.  The  patri- 
otic versifiers  of  this  country  will,  if  they 
persist,  end  by  making  the  sea  impossible  for 
a  plain  man  to  sail  on.  I  have  long  felt 
that  I  want  never  again  to  read  anything 
about  the  sea  except  the  advertisements  of 
auxiliary  yawls  and  cutters  in  the  Yachting 
World.  I  recommend  these  advertisements 
as  a  balm  for  sores  caused  by  rhymed  marine 
Jingoism. 


327 


A  BOOK  IN  A  RAILWAY 
ACCIDENT 

20  July  'II  Books  are  undoubtedly  cursed,  and  ren- 
dered unreadable  in  a  new  sense.  I  don't 
know  how  many  years  it  is  since  I  was 
informed  that  Villiers  de  L'Isle  Adam's 
"  L'Eve  Future "  was  a  really  fine  novel. 
I  bought  it,  and  I  was  so  upset,  in  my  nar- 
row youthfulness,  to  find  that  the  author 
had  made  a  hero  of  Thomas  Alva  Edison, 
and  called  him  by  his  name,  that  I  could  not 
accomplish  more  than  two  chapters.  Later 
I  was  again  informed  that  "  L'Eve  Future  " 
was  a  really  fine  novel,  and  I  had  another 
brief  tussle  with  it,  and  was  vanquished  by 
its  dulness.  I  received  a  third  warning,  and 
started  yet  again,  and  disliked  the  book 
rather  less,  and  then  I  completely  lost  it  in 
a  removal.  After  months  or  years  it  mysteri- 
ously turned  up,  like  a  fox-terrier  who  has 
run  oflf  on  an  errand  of  his  own.  But  I  did 
not  resume  it.  And  then  after  another  long 
interval  the  idea  that  I  absolutely  must  read 
"  L'Eve  Future "  gathered  force  in  my 
mind,  and  I  decided  that  the  next  time  I 
went  away  for  a  week-end  I  would  take  it 
with  me.  This  was  in  France.  I  took  it 
away  with  me.    I  read  a  hundred  pages  on 

328 


A  BOOK  IN  A  RAILWAY  ACCIDENT 

the  outward  journey  and  I  got  on  terms  with  20  July  '11 
"  L'Eve  Future."  "  Ce  livre  m' attend  ait," 
as  a  certain  French  novelist  said  when  he 
read  "  Tom  Jones."  On  the  return  journey 
I  was  deep  buried  in  "  L'Eve  Future,"  when 
a  fearful  jolting  suddenly  began  to  rock  the 
saloon  carriage  in  which  I  was.  The  jolting 
grew  worse,  very  much  worse.  Women 
screamed.  I  saw  my  stick  fly  out  of  the 
rack  above  my  head  across  the  carriage. 
The  door  leading  to  the  corridor  jumped  off 
its  hinges.  Then  shattered  glass  fell  in 
showers,  and  I  saw  an  old  lady  beneath  an 
arm-chair  and  a  table.  The  shape  of  the 
carriage  altered.  And  then,  after  an  enor- 
mous crash,  equilibrium  was  established 
amid  the  cries  of  human  anguish.  I  had 
clung  to  the  arms  of  my  seat  and  was  un- 
hurt, but  there  were  four  wounded  in  the 
carriage.  My  eye-glasses  were  still  sticking 
on  my  nose.  Saying  to  myself  that  I  must 
keep  calm,  I  put  them  carefully  away,  and 
began  to  help  to  get  people  out  of  the  wreck. 
It  was  not  until  I  looked  about  for  my  be- 
longings that  I  saw  that  the  corner  of  a 
tender  had  poked  itself  into  our  carriage. 
Outside  a  mail-van  and  two  enormous 
coaches  were  lying  very  impressively  on 
their   sides,    and    two   wounded    girls   were 

329 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

20  July  'II  lying  on  the  grass  by  the  track,  and  people 
were  shouting  for  doctors.  I  ultimately  got 
away  with  my  bag  and  stick  and  hat,  and 
walked  to  the  nearest  station,  where  a  porter 
naturally  asked  me  for  my  ticket.  I  hired 
an  auto  and  reached  Paris  only  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  late  for  dinner.  And  I  congratu- 
lated myself  on  my  calmness  and  perfect 
presence  of  mind  in  a  railway  accident.  Only 
"  L'Eve  Future  "  was  not  in  my  bag.  I  had 
forgotten  it,  and  my  presence  of  mind  had 
thus  been  imperfect.  I  did  not  buy  another 
copy  of  "  L'Eve  Future,"  and  I  don't  think 
I  ever  shall,  now. 


330 


"FICTION"  AND 
"LITERATURE" 

Publishers'  advertisements  of  imaginative  31  ^^9-  '^^ 
work  are  so  constantly  curious  that  one  gets 
accustomed  to  their  bizarre  qualities  and  re- 
frains from  comment.  But  Messrs,  Hutchin- 
son, who  are  evidently  rather  proud  of  hav- 
ing secured  Lucas  Malet's  new  long  novel, 
have  thought  of  a  new  adjective,  and  the 
event  must  be  chronicled.  They  are  announc- 
ing to  the  world  that  Lucas  Malet's  new 
novel  is  "  literary  " — "  the  literary  novel  of 
the  autumn."  I  cannot  be  quite  sure  what 
this  means,  but  it  is  probably  intended  to 
signify  that,  in  the  opinion  of  Messrs.  Hutch- 
inson, Lucas  Malet's  novel  is  very  special — 
that  is  to  say,  it  is  not  a  mere  novel.  Less 
adroit  publishers  than  Messrs.  Hutchinsons 
might  have  described  it  as  an  "  art  novel." 
(C/.  "  art  furniture,"  all  up  Tottenham  Court 
Road.)  Some  of  the  most  esteemed  pro- 
vincial dailies  have  a  column  headed  "  Liter- 
ature "  on  five  days  of  the  week,  but  on  the 
sixth  day  that  column  is  headed  "  New  Fic- 
tion." You  see  the  distinction.  Messrs. 
Hutchinsons  are  doubtless  hinting  to  the 
provinces  that  the  new  book  is  something 
between    "  literature "    and    "  fiction,"    and 

331 


BOOKS  AND  PERSONS 

31  'Aug.  '11  combines  the  superior  attributes  of  both. 
Once  the  Athenceum,  apparently  staggered 
by  the  discovery  that  Joseph  Conrad  existed, 
reviewed  a  novel  of  his  under  the  rubric  of 
"  Literature,"  instead  of  with  other  novels 
under  the  rubric  of  fiction.  Messrs.  Hutchin- 
son have  possibly  an  eye  also  on  the 
AthencBum.  Personally,  I  would  not  permit 
my  publishers  to  advertise  a  novel  of  mine 
as  literary.  But  on  the  whole  I  wouldn't  seri- 
ously object  to  the  adjective  "  un-literary." 


332 


INDEX 


Academies.  French  and  British,  8i 
Academy,    the    British,    228-23^ 
Academy,    The,    under    the    editorship 

of    Mr.    Hind,    4,    19;    under   other 

controls,    38,    64 
Advertisements,    300 
Agents,    literary,    22,    72 
Aid,   State,    for   the   artist,   319 
Albert,    Henri,    78 
Alexander,    Sir    George,   63 
American    postal    censorship,    193 
Anderson,    Sir    Robert,    193 
Andreief,    Leonide,    224 
Anglo-Saxon,    the,    243 
Anthologies,    5 

Antoine,  director  of  the  Odcon,  257,  2S9 
Apoutkine,    225 
Archer,    William,    140 
Aristophanes,    54 
Arnold,    Matthew,    19,    268 
Art,    the    theory    of,    283,    284 
"  Art    of   the    short    story,"    the,    86 
"  Artifex "     reviews    the     Letters    of 

Queen   Victoria,    12 
Artists,    creative,    13,    158,    228 
and   critics,    158 
as    critics,    158,    283 
and    money,    242,    250-254 
Asquith,   H.   H.,   302 
Athenaeum,  the,  68,  71;  its  review  of 

"  A   Set   of   Six,"   36,   333 
Audoux,    Marguerite,    305 
Austin,   Alfred,   325 
Author,   the,    130 
Author,    the,    and    the    publisher,    13, 

i6,    17,   22,    33,    71,    204 
Authors    and    gift-books,    68 
Authors'   Society,   the,    130,    171,  233, 

277,    291 
Autobiography   in   fiction,   295 
Ayscough,   John,   28 

Balfour,  A.   J.,   82,   87,  291,   306 
Balzac,    12,    134,    183,    252 
Balzac,    Prof.    Saintsbury's    introduc- 
tions to  the  works  of,   43,   183 
Baring,    Maurice,    208 
Barker,    H.    Granville,    317 
Barres,    Maurice,    82 
Barrie,  J.   M.,    5,   94 
Barry.   Dr.   W.    F.,    143 
Baudelaire,    Charles,    16,    221 
Bayle,   Pierre,   267 
Bazin,    Rene,    65 
Becque,    Henri,    255-262,    323 
Beerbohm,    Max,    145 
Bennett,    James   Gordon,    193 


Benson,  Arthur  Christopher,  4,  11, 
239-241 

Bcrenson,    Bernhard,    158 

Bernhardt,  Sarah,  a  caricature  of,  79 

Bernstein.    Henri.    197 

Beverley  Fathers,  the,  and  their  li- 
brary,   189 

Bible,   the,    172 

Binyon,  Mrs.  Laurence,  edits  "  Nine* 
teenth-Century  Prose,"  s 

Blackwood's   Magazine,    325 

Blake,    William,    18,   314 

Book  in  a   Railway  Accident,  a,  328 

Bookman,    the.    5,    143 

Book-buyer,   the,    32,    71 

Book-market,    the,    133 

Book-pedlar,   the,    105 

Books   of   the  Year,    77,   289 

Boot,   Sir   Jesse,    106,    173 

Booth,  E.  C,  "  The  Cliff  End,"  by,  26 

"Borgia!"    a   sensational   novel,   226 

Boston  Libraries  Censorship,  the,  190 

Bourne,    George,    120 

Bournemouth.    227 

Bradley,   A.   C,   269 

Bridges,    Robert,    22,    63,    325 

Brieux,    155,    195-200 

British  Academy  of  Letters,  the,  228- 
234 

British  Weekly,  see  Nicoll.  Sir  W.  R. 

Bronte,  Charlotte  and   Emily,  42,  210 

Browning,    Robert,    126 

Bunting,    Sir   Percy,   295 

Caine,  Hall,   56,   17s,  206,  305 

Campbell-Bannerman,    Sir    Henry,    87 

Cambridge    University    Press,    300 

Capus,   Alfred,    197 

Carpenter,    Edward,    22 

Censorship  by  the  libraries,   167,   181, 

271 
Censorship,    postal,    in    England    and 

America,   193 
Cezanne,    282 
Chamberlain.    Joseph,    137 
Charity,   the   sale   of   books    for,   68 
Charmes,    Francis,    81 
Chavannes,    Puvis   de,    190 
"  Cherry    Orchard,    The,"    Tchehkoff's 

play,   321-324 
Chesterton,   G.   K.,    150-152 
Christie.    Manson.   and   Woods,   281 
Christmas,  the  publishers',   73 
Churchill.    Winston,    291 
Circulating    libraries,    the,    88 
Classics,    the    reading    of,    3 


Clear,  Claudius,  see  Nicoll,  Sir  W.  R 


,  Sir 


333 


INDEX 


Clemetu^eau,   6t 

Clifford,   Dr.   John,    196 

Coleridge,   S.   T.,   268 

Collins,   Arthur,   318 

Collins,   J.    Churton,    41,    269 

Colonial   expansion,    German,    30 

Comedians,    stage,   63 

Composition,    the    foundation    of    all 

arts,    27 
Conductor,   an   orchestral,    43 
Confessions,    77 
Convention,    literary,    118 
Conrad,  Joseph,   9,  27,  32,  36-40,   87, 

94,  231,   238,   332 
Cooper,   E.   H.,   68 
Corelli,    Marie,    32,    47,    48,    49,    56, 

103,   206,    305 
Corroborative    detail,    312 
Criticism,   English  literary,   267 

the,    of   artists,    158,    283 
Critics,    artists   and,    158 
newspaper,    26,    36 
professorial,    41,    260 
Crosland,   T.   W.   H.,   64 
Cross,   Donatella,   235 
Crosse  and  Blackwell,  Messrs.,  12 
Curel.   Frangois   de,  253 

Daily  Mail,  the,    127,    138,   139 

Daily  News,   the,    150,   295 

Daily   Telegraph,   the,   306 

Danby,   Frank,    10 

d'Annunzio,  Gabriele,  235 

Dante,    19 

Darling,    Mr.   Justice,    12 

Davies,  W.   H.,   78,  325 

Davray,    Henry,    220 

Debussy,    Claude,    280 

Defoe,    Daniel,    172 

Dehan,   Richard  (Clotilda  Graves),  290 

Dent  and   Sons,   33,    103,    183 

de  Morgan,  William,  95,  174,  289 

"  De  Profundis,"  suppressions  in,  217 

Dial,   the,   243 

Dialogue,   novel,   311 

Dickens,   Charles,    loj,    134,    139,   252 

Dilettanti  of  letters,   the,   as  a  class, 

229 
Dilke,   Sir   Charles,   295 
Dixie,    Lady   Florence,    193 
Dobson,   Austin,   270 
Donnay,    Maurice,    197 
Dostoievsky,  F.  M.,   117,  208-213,  216 

308 
Douglas,   Lord   Alfred,   64,   325 

James,    303 
Drama   in   the   novel,    311 
Dumas,    His,   Alexandre,    200 

"EccE  Homo,"  Nietzsche's.  77 
Edinburgh    Review,    the,    on    "  Ugli- 
ness in   Fiction,"  8 


Editions,"   French  and   English,   59 
Eliot,  George,  8,   135 
Elton,    Oliver,    269 
Emerson,    R.    W.,    190 
"  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  The,"  300 
English    literary   criticism,    267 
English  Review,   the,   66,   145,   294 
Epic,  the,  and  the  Sonnet,  87 
Esher,    Lord,    1 1 

Factory   Acts,   the,  327 

Fay,    William,    63 

"  Fiction  "    and    "  Literature,"    328 

Fiction,   autobiography   in,   295 

ugliness    in,    8 
Fielding,  Henry,   172,   192,  271 
Flaubert,    Gustave,    16,   212 
Florio,   John,    223 
Fogazzaro,   Antonio,   306 
Forster,   F.    M.,   292 
Fortnightly  Review,  the,  193,  306,  325 
France   Anatole,    59,    82,    232 
Free   Library,   the   Municipal,    104 
Frith,   W.  P.,   210 

Galsworthy,   John,   9,  95,    184,   214- 

216,  317 
Garvin,  J.    L.,   291,   305 
Gauguin,    282 
Gaunt,    Mary,    276 
Gautier   Theophile,    139 
George  V,  King,  317 
Georges,    Mdlle.,    99 
German    Colonial    expansion,    30 
Gide,   Andre,   66,    155 
Gift-Books,    Royal,    68 
Gil   Bias,   259 

Gilchrist,    R.    Murray,    87,    94,    117 
Gladstone,   Lord,    157 

W.    E.,   51 
Glasgow   libraries,   censorship   in   the^ 

192 
Glyn,   Elinor,    10,   271-277,   289 
Goethe,    19 
Gogol,    117,   208 
Gorky,    Maxim,    224 
Gould,  Jay,   193 
Grahame,    Kenneth,    57 
Grosvenor  Library,  the,  lofc 

Hand,  T.  W.,  librarian  at  Leeds,  189 

Hankin,    St.    John,    140 

Hardy,  Thomas,  8,  9,  87,  94,  96,  137, 

172,    192,    267 
Harland,   Henry  91 
Harper's    Magazine    51 
Harraden,    Beatrice,    47 
Harriman,    193 

Havergal,   Francis   Ridley,   241 
Hazlitt,    William,    268 
Heaton,   Sir  J.,  Henniker,   196 
Heinemann,  William,   169,   170 


334 


INDEX 


Herford.  Prof.  C.  H.,  84,  269 

Hewlett,   Maurice,    130 

Hill,   Rowland,    135 

Hind,    C.    Lewis,    as    editor    of    the 

Academy,    4 
Hocking,    the    brothers,    103 
Holiday   reading,   222 
Holmes,   O.    W.,    190 
Hope,  Anthony,  47,   130 
Houssaye,  Henry,  81 
Hudson,   W.  H.,  278 
Hugo,   Victor,    134,    155 
Hull    and    the    Libraries    Censorship. 

1 8s 
Hull  Daily  Mail,   the,    186,    187 
Hutchinson,   Sir  G.  T.,   130,   169 

Thomas,        Wordsworthian        re- 
searches  of,    18 

Ibsen,    Henrik,    321,   323 

I'lllustration,    260 
Impressionistic   Method,   the,  37 
Ingram,   J.   H.,   84 
Intimations   of    Immortality,   63 
Irwin,  Mabel   McCoy,   194 

Jacobs,  W.  W.,  and  Aristophanes, 
S3.   94 

James,   Henry,  87,  95,  263-266 

Jaures  Jean,   61 

John  o'  London,  see  Whitten,  Wil- 
fred,   3 

Johnson,    Lionel,   267 

Journal,  a  report  in  the  Paris,  223 
des  Debits,  the,  81 

Journalism,    success   in,    300-304 

Keary,    Peter,    188 
Keats,    John,    237 
Kingsley,    Charles,    105 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  55,  57,  94,  i6o-i66 
Knight,  Prof.  W.,  Wordsworthian  re- 
searches of,  18 

Labourer,   the  Surrey,   120 

Lamb,    Charles,    268 

Lambert,    Canon,    186 

Lane,   John,    120 

Lang,   Andrew,  si.  83,    114 

Lansdowne,_  Lord,    306 

Laprade,    Pierre,    283 

Lectures  and  State  Performances,  315 

Lessing,    159 

Letters,  the,  of  Queen  Victoria,  11, 
16,   68,  69 

Libraries,    106 

the   circulating,    88 

and  their   subscribers,    33 

the.    and    "  His   Hour,"   271 

censorship  by  the,    16^,    181,   271 

Library,    the    Municipal    Free,    104 

Literary  criticism,   English,  2^7 


Literary  periodical,  the,   242 
Liverpool,   44 

London,    160;    and    the    Neo-Impres- 
sionists,   280 
a  book  on,   3 

the  potential  reading  public  of,  loi 
the  Bishop  of,  77 
Longfellow,  H.  W.,   190 
Love  poetry,    145 
Lowell,  J.   R.,   190 
Lucas,   E.   v.,  6,   150 
Lucifer,  an  American  journal,  193 
Lytton,   Lord    (and   "Money"),   316- 
319 

Mackail,  J.  W.,  270 

Macmillan,   Sir  Frederick,   130 

"  Madame  Bovary,"  terms  of  the 
publication  of,   16 

Madeleine,   Jules  de  la,   16 

Maiet   Lucas,    331 

Mallarme,   Stephane,  6s 

"  Man  of  Kent,  A,"  see  Nicoll,  Sir 
W.   R. 

Manchester,  the  potential  reading  pub- 
lic  of,    10 1 

Manchester  Guardian,  the,  47,  84,  237 

Marjoram,  J.,   145 

Masefield,   John,  28,   311-314 

Mason,    Frederic,   77 

Mathews,    Elkin,    267 

Matisse,   283 

Maupassant,  Guy  de,  86,  117,  137,  252 

Maxwell,    W.    B.,   9,   27 

Meyerfeld,    Dr.   Max,   217 

Memoirs,  books^of  scandalous,  98,  i8r 

"  Mercure  de  France,  Societe  du,"  59 

Meredith,  George,  87,  95,  134-139, 
172,   227 

Merrick,  Leonard,   5,  94 

Methuen,  Sir  A.  M.   S.,   130 

Middle-class,   89 

Milton,    19,    20 

Mitchell  Library,  Whitman's  poems 
at  the,    192 

Moliere,   19 

Money,  artists  and,   242,  250-254 

"  Money,"  a  gala  performance  of,  316 

Montague,   C.   E.,   201-203 

Montaigne,    222 

Montenegro,   the  Queen   of,   276 

Moore,  George,  8,  87,  94,  172,  176,  190 

Morley,    Lord,    22 

Morning  Post,   the,   208 

Mudie|s,   33,   52,   88,    173,   174,   175 

Municipal    Free  Library,   the,    104 

Murray,  John,  action  against  The 
Times,   11,   16 

Napoleon's  mistresses,  99 

Nation,    the,    84 

Nelson's  Sevenpenny  no-zels,  107,  130 


335 


INDEX 


Neo-Impressionism  and  literature,  281 

Neolith,    the,    243 

New  Age,  the,    122,   246 

"  New    Machiavelli,    The,"    294-299 

New  York,   160,   161 

Newcastle-on-Tyne,    3 

Nicoll,   Sir  William   Robertson,   5,  26, 

29,   67,    114,    222,   319 
Nietzsche,    Friedrich,    78 
Norris,    W.    E.,   49 
Novel,  a  "  literary,"   331 

a    sexual,    271 

dialogue  and  drama  in  the,   311 

library    censorship    of    the,     167, 
181,   271 

the   sevenpenny,   72,    107,    130 

the   six-shilling,    22,    72,    131 

the,   ugliness   in,  8 

of  the  season,  the,   26 
Novels  and  short  stories,  a  perennial 
discussion,  86 

autobiography   in,   295 

shilling,    107 

the   length   of,    248 

the  sales  of,   68,   131 
Novelists  and  agents,  22,   72 
Nousanne.   Henri  de,   259,  260 
Noyes,   Alfred,   325 
Numes,  M.,  259 

Omak  Khayyam,  84 
Ospovat,   Henry,   79 

Pall  Mall   Gazette,  the,    137 

Paris,   iss,  256 

Pater.    Walter,    227 

Pedlars,  book,    105 

Pemberton,    Max.    103 

Periodical,  the  literary,   242 

Persky,    Serge,    224 

Perusals,    unfinished,    235-237 

Phillpotts.    Eden,    47,    87 

Pinero,   Sir  A.   W.,    140 

Play   of  Tchehkoff's,   a,   321-324 

Poe  and   the  short   story,  84 

Poetry,   love,    145 
marine,    325 
official   recognition   of,    iS5 

Poets,   contemporary,   63,   325 

Post-Impressionists,    see    Neo-Impres- 
sionism 

Postal  censorship,  English  and  Ameri- 
can,  193 

Prices  of  books,  the,   14,   130 

Prose,  the.  of  Wilfred  Whitten,  3 

Professors,   41.   269 

Provinces,   the  potential  reading  pub- 
lic  of   the,    10 1 

Public,  the,  88;  a  publisher  on  "the 
public,"  204;  disdain  of  artists 
for  the  public,  243 


Public,  the  characteristics  of  the  mid- 
dle-class    public,      "  the     back- 
bone," 88-94;  treatment  of  this 
class    by    contemporary    novel- 
ists,  94-96;   unreadiness  of  this 
class  to  be  pleased,  97;  explana- 
tion of  its  concern  with  fiction, 
98 
the  potential  public  in  the  indus- 
trial  Midlands,    loi;   trade  fail- 
ure   to    cater    for    this    public, 
102-104;     the     Free     Libraries, 
104;  the  book-pedlar,  105;  cheap 
editions,    107 
the    sections    composed    of    dilet- 
tanti,     229;      "right     people," 
291-294 
as  book-buyers,   32 
Publishers'    Association,    the,    and    Li- 
brary   Censorship,    169,    277 
Publishers    and    authors,    204-207 

English    and    French,    compared, 

16,   17 
their  place  in  literature,  13 
profits,    II,    16,    72,    182 
Publishing  seasons,  bad,  22,  26,  68 
Punch,    143 
Putney,  the  High  Street,   123 

QuiLLER-CoucH,   Sir  A.  T.,  55,  87 

Railway  accident,  a  book  in  a,  328 
Raleigh,    Prof.    Sir    Walter,   44,    238, 

269 
Reading   on   holiday,   222 
Realism,    the   progress    towards,    118; 

Russian   realism,   208 
Rembrandt.    281 
Reprints,    cheap,    33 
Reviewers,   26,    36 
Revue  des  deux  Mondes,  the,  81 
Reynolds,   Stephen,   78,   X20 
Richards,    Grant,    26 
Richardson,   Frank,    109 

Samuel,    139,    172,    193 
"  Rita,"   SI 
Robaglia,  M.,  259 
Rockefeller,   J.   D.,    193 
Rodin's  statue  of  Hugo,   156 
Rosebery,   Lord,   250 
Ross,    Robert,    217 
Rossetti,    D.    G.,    172 
Roussel,   283 
Rouveyre's    caricature    of    Bernhardt, 

Royal   Academy,   the,   234 

Russian   fiction  and  drama,   117,   141, 

208-213,  224,   321 
Rutherford,    Mark,   94 

Sainte-Beuve,    267,    268,    270 
Saintsbury,    George,    42,    269 
Sales,  the,  of  novels,  59,  68,  131 


336 


INDEX 


Sampson,  John,  his  edition  of  Blake, 

i8 
Sargent,   John,   95,    190 
Savoy,    the,    243 
Scarborough,    227 
Schiicking,   Dr.   Levin,  66 
Scott,   Sir  Walter,  86,   105,   134,   139, 

252 
Scott-James,   R.  A.,  29S 
Sculpture,    proposal    for    an    academy 

of,   234 
Sea  and   Slaughter,    325-327 
Season,  the  novel  of  the,  26 
Seasons,  bad  publishing,   22,   68 
Selincourt,   Ernest  de,  his  edition  of 

Keats,    18 
Series  of  reprints,   cheap,    33 
Sevenpenny  novel,  the,  72,  107,  130 
Shakespeare,    19,    172,   318 
Shaw,  George  Bernard,  84,   130,    19s, 

200,   291,   316,    317 
Shelley,   P.    B.,    172,   318 
Shilling  novels,    107 
Short  story,  the,  in   England,   38,  84 
Shorter,   C.    K.,   26,   29,   42,    114,    188 
Simpkin  Marshall,  and  Co.,    105 
Sims,   G.   R.,   126 

Single  lines,  the,   of  Wordsworth,   18 
Six-shilling    novel,    the,    22,    72,    131 
Smith,   Sir   F.    E.,    78,   291 

Nowell.    his    edition    of    Words- 
worth,   18,    21 
Smith,    Reginald,    130 

the   Rt.   Hon.   W.   F.   D.,  47 
and   Son,   W.   H.,   88,   132 
Smollett,    Tobias,    192 
"  Societe    du    Mercure    de    France," 

the,    59 
Sonnet,  the,  and  the  Eptc,  87 
Sphere,   see   Shorter,    C.    K. 
Stacpoole,   H.   de  Vere,   28 
Stage  Society,  the  Incorporated,  256, 

State  performances,  lectures  and,  315 
Stationers'   shops   and   books,    103 
Stead.  W.  T.,   295 
Stendhal,   60,   96,    134,   2" 
Stephen,   Sir   Leslie,    19 
Sterne,    Laurence,    172 
Stevenson,  R.  L.,  37.  81,  86,  221,  252 
Stock,  M.,  the  French  publisher,  256, 

260 
Strand  Magazine,  the,   113 
Strauss.    Richard,    280 
Style,    English,   45 
Success   in    Journalism,    300-304 
Suppressions  in  "  De  Profundis,"  217 
Surrey    labourer,    the,    120 
Swift.    Jonathan,    172 
Swinburne,  Algernon  Charles,  22,  66, 

123 


Switzerland,   227 
Symons,    Arthur,   209 
Synge,  J.   M.,  63 

Taine,   267,   270 

Tchehkoff,  Anton,  117,  141,  208,  225, 

258,   321-324 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  84,  85,  103, 

125,    126,    156 
Thackeray,   W.   M.,   134   139,  315 
Thurston,    E.,    Temple,    290 
Times.     The,     and     the     Letters     of 
Queen    Victoria,     1 1 

an  article  on   Trollope  in,    148 

Book   Club,   88,   315 

Literary   Supplement,   48,    266 
Tolstoy   117   192,  208,  224 
Tonnelat,    M.,    on    German    Colonial 

expansion,   30 
Tourgenieff,    117,    208-213 
Tree,   Sir  H.   Beerbohm,    197 
Trevena,  John,   276 
Trollope,    Anthony,    134,    139,    148 
Tunbridge    Wells,    12 

Ugliness  in  fiction,   8 
Unclean    books,    143 
Unfinished  perusals,   235 
"  Unpleasant  "  books,   97 

Vac  HELL,    Horace    Annesley,    97 

Vallotton,   Felix,  283 

Verlaine,   Paul,   28 

Victoria,    Queen,   the   Letters   of,    ix, 

16,   68,   69 
VilHers   de   L'Isle  Adam,    129,   328 
Vladimar,  the  Grand  Duchess,  276 

Walkley,   a.   B.,   62,   140,    194,  222 
Ward,    Mrs.    Humphry,    39,    47,    56, 

65.    103,    130,    139,   206,   291 
Wedgwood,   A.    F.,   237 
Wells,  H.  G.,  61,  62,  78,  87,  94,  109. 

J 16,    123,    186,    192,    294-299,    313, 

31S 
Westminster  Gazette,  the,  60,  69,  248 
White.    Gilbert,    84 

W.   Hale   (Mark  Rutherford),  94 
Whitman's     poems     at     the     Mitchell 

Library,    102 
Whitten.  Wilfred  (John  o'  London),  3 
Wilde.    Oscar,    66,    217,    317 
Williams,    Daniel,    a   bookseller,    12 
Woman's    Journal,    the    Boston,    193 
Wordsworth,   William,    18,    157 
Wyman,    Messrs.,    132 

Yeats,  W.  B.,  63,  325 
Yellow  Book,  the,  243 
Yonge,  Charlotte  M.,  8,  105,  136,  2IO 

Zangwill.    Israel,   311 
Zola,  Emile,  59,  208 


337 


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